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http://www.archive.org/details/bookofprosenarraOOwellrich 


A  BOOK  OF 
PROSE  NARRATIVES 


CHOSEN  AND  EDITED 

BY 

CHAUNCEY  WETMORE  WELLS 

ASSOCIATE   PROFESSOR  IN  THE   UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 


GINN  AND  COMPANY 

BOSTON  •  NEW  YORK  •  CHICAGO  •  LONDON 


COPYRIGHT,  1914,  BY  CHAUNCEY  WETMORE  WELLS 

ALL  RIGHTS   RESERVED 

514.1 


v^A 


tgfte   gtftf  laeam   jgregft 

GINN  AND  COMPANY-  PRO- 
PRIETORS •  BOSTON  •  U.S.A 


\aI453 

Jboo 


PREFACE 


A  new  book  of  specimens  in  any  of  the  forms  of  discourse  should 
be  welcome  if  the  matter  is  fresh  and  inviting  and  also  of  standard 
worth,  and  if  the  principle  is  sound  as  well  as  practical,  even  more 
if  it  be  new.  These  selections  are  certainly  not  hackneyed — 
hardly  any  of  them  are  to  be  found  in  a  similar  book;  and  read- 
able they  as  certainly  are,  some  of  them  as  readable  as  a  fairy  tale 
and  some  as  readable  as  a  magazine  article.  Yet  all  are  standard ; 
here  is  nothing  ephemeral.    What  then  of  the  principle? 

Instructors  in  English  have  long  wanted  a  book  of  narrative 
specimens  for  use  in  freshman  classes,  both  ^s  a  guide  to  writing 
in  the  simpler  forms  and  as  a  literary  stimulus.  Now  the  editor 
of  practically  every  manual  in  use  crowds  into  one  bulky  volume 
examples  of  every  one  of  the  forms.  Among  the  examples  of 
narration  he  tucks  in  a  stray  chapter  of  history,  or  of  biography 
or  travel.  But  in  general  his  excerpts  are  short  stories  or  chap- 
ters from  novels;  the  study  of  narration  he  takes  to  mean  the 
study  of  story- writing  and  story-reading,  the  study  of  one  of  the 
finest  of  the  fine  arts.  All  very  good,  but  does  it  fit  the  needs 
of  the  ordinary  freshman? 

One  great  difficulty  we  all  must  meet  is  in  teaching,  our  stu- 
dents, especially  freshmen,  to  write  plainly  and  soundly  and,  at 
the  same  time,  vitally  and  agreeably.  The  stock  of  most  fresh- 
man writing  is,  of  course,  exposition,  with  a  Httle  description — in 
rare  instances,  narration — introduced  as  a  relief  and  a  luxury.  In 
the  meantime  the  humdrum  and  useful  exposition  plods  along, 
and  but  little  is  done  in  narration  of  the  plainer  kind.  Yet  every 
student  should  be  taught  to  ij^rrate  and  to  describe  in  this 
way;   he  has  need  of  both  powers  every  day.    And  certainly 


328238 


iv  PREFACE 

his  expository  writing  will  gain  vastly  by  his  practice  in  a  style 
abounding  in  the  sense  of  fact. 

The  editor  believes  that  this  volume  of  personal  and  imper- 
sonal narratives  contains  enough  matter  for  models  to  fit  the 
ordinary  student's  actual  needs.  Here  are  more  than  twenty 
pieces,  ranging  from  primitive  to  modern,  from  naive  to  sophis- 
ticated. None  of  them  is  fiction  in  the  strict  sense.  The  two 
apparent  exceptions,  that  from  The  Journal  of  the  PlagueY  ear  and 
that  from  Henry  Esmond,  are  historical  at  least  in  their  appeal  to 
the  reader's  interest  and  in  their  bid  for  belief.  The  scheme  of 
division — (i)  Legendary  History,  (2)  History,  (3)  Intimate  His- 
tory— is  meant  as  a  grouping  of  models  no  less  than  as  a  literary 
classification.  For  practical  purposes  the  second  and  third  divi- 
sions will  be  found  the  better  suited.  Few  freshmen  can  write  ac- 
ceptable stories;  but  all  freshmen  can  learn  to  tell  a  plain  tale 
plainly,  perhaps  interestingly;  and  many  freshmen  write  capital 
bits  of  personal  narration.  .-,.0*.'"^  '- 

The  editor  hopes  his  book  may  serve  as  an  introduction  to 
delightful  ranges  of  literature  which  seldom  lie  within  the  scope 
of  lower  college  courses  because  not  available  in  a  handbook. 
Why  should  novels  and  stories  have  everything  their  own  way? 
Are  not  certain  histories  literature?  are  not  saga  and  chivalric 
legend  literature?  above  all,  are  not  Bible-stories  literature? 
Yes,  but  so  too  are  certain  autobiographies  Uterature;  and 
near  neighbors  to  novels  and  stories  at  that.  Indeed  the  study 
of  such  a  book  as  this  should  lay  the  very  best  foundation  to 
the  later  study  of  fiction  and  drama,  for  the  pieces  show,  in 
this  way  or  that,  all,  or  nearly  all,  the  qualities  of  narrative 
structure  and  style.  Now  nothing  is  so  fundamental  to  the 
appreciation  of  novels  and  plays  as  the  ability  to  realize 
experience  (actual  or  supposed)  as  set  forth  in  narrative  order 
and  scheme,  and  in  a  sound  diction  quick  with  vivid  details; 
upon  these  play-writing  and  story-writing  inevitably  depend. 
And  not  only  plot,  but   character  even,  will  be  the  better 


PREFACE  V 

understood  by  one  who  has  a  trained  sense  of  narrative  order 
and  fact. 

His  purpose  being  frankly  rhetorical,  the  editor  has  added  few 
notes  or  none.  Here  and  there  a  necessary  definition  is  given  or 
a  necessary  fact  supplied,  mainly,  howeyer,  in  the  little  chapter- 
prefaces.  But  no  origins  are  traced  and  no  allusions  are  ex- 
plained. Any  teacher,  therefore,  who  finds  that  sort  of  exercise 
profitable  to  his  class  has  a  clear  field.  Surely  there  are  enough 
encyclopedias  and  dictionaries,  and  more  than  enough  annotated 
editions  ready  to  hand.  Nor  would  the  editor  embarrass  the 
teacher  with  rhetorical  apparatus — with  plot  schemes  or  with 
analyses  of  style,  of  sentence-forms,  habitual  phrases,  diction. 
A  student  is  less  helped  than  hindered  by  them;  a  good  teacher 
can  supply  his  own  devices,  and  the  better  the  teacher  the  more 
he  will  resent  being  run  into  a  mold.  Rhetoric  defeats  expres- 
sion when  its  appUcations  are  made  too  hard  and  fast. 

The  editor  has  taken  certain  liberties.  He  has  omitted  au- 
thors' footnotes  where  these  were  irrelevant  or  obtrusive  because 
too  documentary  or  distracting.  He  has  even  omitted  soHd  pas- 
sages from  the  body  of  the  text,  sometimes  for  brevity,  more 
often  for  clarity.  Much  from  the  text  of  the  De  Quincey  passage, 
for  example,  some  of  it  verbiage  and  nearly  all  of  it  digression, 
he  has  ruthlessly  cut.  But  he  believes  he  has  done  no  wrong  to 
this  or  any  other  author,  that  he  has  never  sacrificed  spirit  to 
form. 

Acknowledgments  for  the  favor  of  copyrighted  books  or  of 
special  editions  are  made  in  the  proper  places.  It  remains  to 
thank  my  colleagues  in  the  University  of  California — Messrs. 
Leonard  Bacon,  Frederick  Blanchard,  Harold  Bruce,  Herbert 
Cory,  Sigurd  Hustvedt,  George  MacMinn  and  George  Smithsori 
for  assistance  in  making  the  selections — and  my  chief,  Professor 
Charles  Mills  Gayley,  for  kindly  criticisms  and  valuable  sug- 
gestions. 

c  w  w 

Berkeley,  California 


CONTENTS 

PART  I.    LEGENDARY  HISTORY 

PAPB, 

The  Prophet  Elijah        .     .  T/te  Bible 3 

The  Battle  of  Rosnaree     .  Cuchulain 14 

The  End  of  Grettir  .     .     .  Grettis  Saga 25 

The  Maxen's  Dream  .     .     .  The  Mabinogion 37 

The  Sangreal Sir  Thomas  Malory    ....  46 

PART  II.    HISTORY 

Thermopyl^    ......     Herodotus 63 

Wat  Tyler's  Rebellion    ^   .    Jea7i  Froissart 75 

The  King's  Flight  ....     Edward  Hyde 98 

The  Capture  of  Monmouth  Thomas  Babington  Macaulay   .   117 

The  Battle  of  Dunbar  .     .     Thomas  Carlyle 129 

The  Relief  of  Leyden    .     .  John  Lothrop  Motley      .     .     .141 

The  Canterbury  Martyrdom  James  Anthony  F?vude  .     .     .149 


PART  HI.    INTIMATE  HISTORY 

The  Eruption  of  Vesuvius  .  Pliny  the  Younger 

The  Count  de  Foix     .     .     .  Jean  Froissart  .     . 

The  Countess  of  Salisbury  Jean  Froissart  .     . 

\    Escape  from  St.  Angelo       .  Benvenuto  Cellini 

r- London  in  the  Plague    .     .  Daniel  Defoe     .     . 

A  Journey  to  Philadelphia  .  Benjamin  Franklin 

vii 


169 

177 
185 
192 

201 1 
208 


•viii  CONTENTS 

S^    1  PAGE 

\        Early  Hardships     ....  Thomas  De  Quincey  .     .     .     .216 

X    \  The  Flaming  Tinman  .     .     .  George  Borrow 246 

^^The  Fight William  Hazlitt 259 

General  Webb  and  the 

Duke  of  Marlborough     .  William  Makepeace  Thackeray  269 

The  Oise  in  Flood  ....  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  .     .     .  284 

APPENDIX 291 


PART  I 

LEGENDARY  HISTORY 


THE  BIBLE 

THE  PROPHET  ELIJAH 

[From  the  First  and  Second  Books  of  Kings,  passim.  The  text  is  taken 
from  the  "authorized,"  or  King  James,  Version,  1611. 

The  period  in  Hebrew  history  is  that  of  the  divided  kingdoms  of 
Israel — that  is  to  say,  Judah  and  Israel — after  the  death  of  Solomon.] 


1  Kings  xvi,  29-33;  xvii,  1-16;  xviii,  1-2;  xviii,  17-46;  xix 

And  in  the  thirty  and  eighth  year  of  Asa  king  of  Judah  began 
Ahab  the  son  of  Omri  to  reign  over  Israel:  and  Ahab  the  son  of 
Omri  reigned  over  Israel  in  Samaria  twenty  and  two  years.  And 
Ahab  the  son  of  Omri  did  evil  in  the  sight  of  the  Lord  above  all 
that  were  before  him.  And  it  came  to  pass,  as  if  it  had  been  a 
light  thing  for  him  to  walk  in  the  sins  of  Jeroboam  the  son  of 
Nebat,  that  he  took  to  wife  Jezebel  the  daughter  of  Ethbaal  king 
of  the  Zidonians,  and  went  and  served  Baal,  and  worshipped  him. 
And  he  reared  up  an  altar  for  Baal  in  the  house  of  Baal,  which  he 
had  built  in  Samaria.  And  Ahab  made  a  grove;  and  Ahab  did 
more  to  provoke  the  Lord  God  of  Israel  to  anger  than  all  the 
kings  of  Israel  that  were  before  him. 

And  Elijah  the  Tishbite,  who  was  of  the  inhabitants  of  Gilead, 
said  unto  Ahab,  As  the  Lord  God  of  Israel  liveth,  before  whom  I 
stand,  there  shall  not  be  dew  nor  rain  these  years,  but  according 
to  my  word.  And  the  word  of  the  Lord  came  unto  him,  saying. 
Get  thee  hence,  and  turn  thee  eastward,  and  hide  thyself  by  the 
brook  Cherith,  that  is  before  Jordan.  And  it  shall  be,  that  thou 
shalt  drink  of  the  brook;  and  I  have  commanded  the  ravens  to 

3 


4  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

feed  thee  there.  So  he  went  and  did  according  unto  the  word  of 
the  Lord:  for  he  went  and  dwelt  by  the  brook  Cherith,  that  is 
before  Jordan.  And  the  ravens  brought  him  bread  and  flesh  in 
the  morning,  and  bread  and  flesh  in  the  evening;  and  he  drank 
of  the  brook.  And  it  came  to  pass  after  a  while,  that  the  brook 
dried  up,  because  there  had  been  no  rain  in  the  land. 

And  the  word  of  the  Lord  came  unto  him,  saying.  Arise,  get 
thee  to  Zarephath,  which  belongeth  to  Zidon,  and  dwell  there: 
behold,  I  have  commanded  a  widow  woman  there  to  sustain  thee. 
So  he  arose  and  went  to  Zarephath.  And  when  he  came  to  the 
gate  of  the  city,  behold,  the  widow  woman  was  there  gathering  of 
sticks:  and  he  called  to  her,  and  said.  Fetch  me,  I  pray  thee,  a 
little  water  in  a  vessel,  that  I  may  drink.  And  as  she  was  going 
to  fetch  it,  he  called  to  her,  and  said.  Bring  me,  I  pray  thee,  a 
morsel  of  bread  in  thine  hand.  And  she  said,  As  the  Lord  thy 
God  liveth,  I  have  not  a  cake,  but  an  handful  of  meal  in  a  barrel, 
and  a  Uttle  oil  in  a  cruse:  and,  behold,  I  am  gathering  two  sticks, 
that  I  may  go  in  and  dress  it  for  me  and  my  son,  that  we  may  eat 
it,  and  die.  And  Elijah  said  unto  her.  Fear  not;  go  and  do  as 
thou  hast  said:  but  make  me  thereof  a  little  cake  first,  and  bring 
it  unto  me,  and  after  make  for  thee  and  for  thy  son.  For  thus 
saith  the  Lord  God  of  Israel,  The  barrel  of  meal  shall  not  waste, 
neither  shall  the  cruse  of  oil  fail,  until  the  day  that  the  Lord 
sendeth  rain  upon  the  earth.  And  she  went  and  did  according  to 
the  saying  of  Elijah:  and  she,  and  he,  and  her  house,  did  eat 
many  days.  And  the  barrel  of  meal  wasted  not,  neither  did  the 
cruse  of  oil  fail,  according  to  the  word  of  the  Lord,  which  he  spake 
by  Elijah. 

And  it  came  to  pass  after  many  days,  that  the  word  of  the  Lord 
came  to  Elijah  in  the  third  year,  saying.  Go,  shew  thyself  unto 
Ahab;  and  I  will  send  rain  upon  the  earth.  And  Elijah  went  to 
shew  himself  unto  Ahab.  And  there  was  a  sore  famine  in  Samaria. 


THE  BIBLE  5 

And  it  came  to  pass,  when  Ahab  saw  Elijah,  that  Ahab  said 
unto  him,  Art  thou  he  that  troubleth  Israel?  And  he  answered, 
I  have  not  troubled  Israel;  but  thou,  and  thy  father's  house,  in 
that  ye  have  forsaken  the  commandments  of  the  Lord,  and  thou 
hast  followed  BaaHm.  Now  therefore  send,  and  gather  to  me  all 
Israel  unto  mount  Carmel,  and  the  prophets  of  Baal  four  hundred 
and  fifty,  and  the  prophets  of  the  groves  four  hundred,  which  eat 
at  Jezebel's  table.  So  Ahab  sent  unto  all  the  children  of  Israel, 
and  gathered  the  prophets  together  unto  mount  Carmel. 

And  Elijah  came  unto  all  the  people,  and  said.  How  long  halt 
ye  between  two  opinions?  if  the  Lord  be  God,  follow  him:  but 
if  Baal,  then  follow  him.  And  the  people  answered  him  not  a 
word.  Then  said  Elijah  unto  the  people,  I,  even  I  only,  remain  a 
prophet  of  the  Lord;  but  Baal's  prophets  are  four  hundred  and 
fifty  men.  Let  them  therefore  give  us  two  bullocks;  and  let 
them  choose  one  bullock  for  themselves,  and  cut  it  in  pieces,  and 
lay  it  on  wood,  and  put  no  fire  under:  and  I  will  dress  the  other 
bullock,  and  lay  it  on  wood,  and  put  no  fire  under:  and  call  ye  on 
the  name  of  your  gods,  and  I  will  call  on  the  name  of  the  Lord: 
and  the  God  that  answereth  by  fire,  let  him  be  God.  And  all  the 
people  answered  and  said.  It  is  well  spoken.  And  Elijah  said 
unto  the  prophets  of  Baal,  Choose  you  one  bullock  for  yourselves, 
and  dress  it  first;  for  ye  are  many;  and  call  on  the  name  of  your 
gods,  but  put  no  fire  under.  And  they  took  the  bullock  which 
was  given  them,  and  they  dressed  it,  and  called  on  the  name  of 
Baal  from  morning  even  until  noon,  saying,  O  Baal,  hear  us. 
But  there  was  no  voice,  nor  any  that  answered.  And  they  leaped 
upon  the  altar  which  was  made.  And  it  came  to  pass  at  noon, 
that  Elijah  mocked  them,  and  said.  Cry  aloud:  for  he  is  a  god; 
either  he  is  talking,  or  he  is  pursuing,  or  he  is  in  a  journey,  or  per- 
adventure  he  sleepeth,  and  must  be  awaked.  And  they  cried 
aloud,  and  cut  themselves  after  their  manner  with  knives  and 
lancets,  till  the  blood  gushed  out  upon  them.  And  it  came  to 
pass,  when  midday  was  past,  and  they  prophesied  until  the  time 


6  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

of  the  offering  of  the  evening  sacrifice,  that  there  was  neither 
voice,  nor  any  to  answer,  nor  any  that  regarded. 

And  EHjah  said  unto  all  the  people.  Come  near  unto  me.  And 
all  the  people  came  near  unto  him.  And  he  repaired  the  altar  of 
the  Lord  that  was  broken  down.  And  Elijah  took  twelve  stones, 
according  to  the  number  of  the  tribes  of  the  sons  of  Jacob,  unto 
whom  the  word  of  the  Lord  came,  saying,  Israel  shall  be  thy 
name:  and  with  the  stones  he  built  an  altar  in  the  name  of  the 
Lord:  and  he  made  a  trench  about  the  altar,  as  great  as  would 
contain  two  measures  of  seed.  And  he  put  the  wood  in  order, 
and  cut  the  bullock  in  pieces,  and  laid  him  on  the  wood,  and  said. 
Fill  four  barrels  with  water,  and  pour  it  on  the  burnt  sacrifice, 
and  on  the  wood.  And  he  said,  Do  it  the  second  time.  And 
they  did  it  the  second  time.  And  he  said.  Do  it  the  third  time. 
And  they  did  it  the  third  time.  And  the  water  ran  round  about 
the  altar;  and  he  filled  the  trench  also  with  water. 

And  it  came  to  pass  at  the  time  of  the  offering  of  the  evening 
sacrifice,  that  Elijah  the  prophet  came  near,  and  said.  Lord  God 
of  Abraham,  Isaac,  and  of  Israel,  let  it  be  known  this  day  that 
thou  art  God  in  Israel,  and  that  I  am  thy  servant,  and  that  I 
have  done  all  these  things  at  thy  word.  Hear  me,  O  Lord,  hear 
me,  that  this  people  may  know  that  thou  art  the  Lord  God,  and 
that  thou  hast  turned  their  heart  back  again.  Then  the  fire  of 
the  Lord  fell,  and  consumed  the  burnt  sacrifice,  and  the  wood, 
and  the  stones,  and  the  dust,  and  licked  up  the  water  that  was 
in  the  trench.  And  when  all  the  people  saw  it,  they  fell  on  their 
faces;  and  they  said.  The  Lord,  he  is  the  God;  the  Lord,  he  is 
the  God. 

And  Elijah  said  unto  them,  Take  the  prophets  of  Baal ;  let  not 
one  of  them  escape.  And  they  took  them:  and  Elijah  brought 
them  ^own  to  the  brook  Kishon,  and  slew  them  there. 

And  Elijah  said  unto  Ahab,  Get  thee  up,  eat  and  drink;  for 
there  is  a  sound  of  abundance  of  rain.  So  Ahab  went  up  to  eat 
and  to  drink.    And  EUjah  went  up  to  the  top  of  Carmel;  and  he 


THE  BIBLE       •  7 

cast  himself  down  upon  the  earth,  and  put  his  face  between  his 
knees,  and  said  to  his  servant,  Go  up  now,  look  toward  the  sea. 
And  he  went  up,  and  looked,  and  said,  There  is  nothing.  And  he 
said.  Go  again  seven  times.  And  it  came  to  pass  at  the  seventh 
time,  that  he  said.  Behold,  there  ariseth  a  httle  cloud  out  of  the 
sea,  Hke  a  man's  hand.  And  he  said,  Go  up,  say  unto  Ahab,  Pre- 
pare thy  chariotj  and  get  thee  down,  that  the  rain  stop  thee  not. 
And  it  came  to  pass  in  the  mean  while,  that  the  heaven  was  black 
with  clouds  and  wind,  and  there  was  a  great  rain.  And  Ahab 
rode,  and  went  to  Jezreel.  And  the  hand  of  the  Lord  was  on 
Ehjah;  and  he  girded  up  his  loins,  and  ran  before  Ahab  to  the 
entrance  of  Jezreel. 

And  Ahab  told  Jezebel  all  that  Elijah  had  done,  and  withal  how 
he  had  slain  all  the  prophets  with  the  sword.  Then  Jezebel  sent 
a  messenger  unto  Elijah,  saying.  So  let  the  gods  do  to  me,  and 
more  also,  if  I  make  not  thy  hfe  as  the  life  of  one  of  them  by  to 
morrow  about  this  time.  And  when  he  saw  that,  he  arose,  and 
went  for  his  life,  and  came  to  Beer-sheba,  which  belongeth  to 
Judah,  and  left  his  servant  there. 

But  he  himself  went  a  day's  journey  into  the  wilderness,  and 
came  and  sat  down  under  a  juniper  tree:  and  he  requested  for 
himself  that  he  might  die;  and  said.  It  is  enough;  now,  O  Lord, 
take  away  my  life;  for  I  am  not  better  than  my  fathers.  And  as 
he  lay  and  slept  under  a  juniper  tree,  behold,  then  an  angel 
touched  him,  and  said  unto  him.  Arise  and  eat.  And  he  looked, 
and,  behold,  there  was  a  cake  baken  on  the  coals,  and  a  cruse  of 
water  at  his  head.  And  he  did  eat  and  drink,  and  laid  him  down 
again.  And  the  angel  of  the  Lord  came  again  the  second  time, 
and  touched  him,  and  said.  Arise  and  eat;  because  the  journey 
is  too  great  for  thee.  And  he  arose,  and  did  eat  and  drink,  and 
went  in  the  strength  of  that  meat  forty  days  and  forty  nights  unto 
Horeb  the  mount  of  God. 

And  he  came  thither  unto  a  cave,  and  lodged  there;  and,  be- 
hold, the  word  of  the  Lord  came  to  him,  and  he  said  unto  him, 


8  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

What  doest  thou  here,  Elijah?  And  he  said,  I  have  been  very 
jealous  for  the  Lord  God  of  hosts:  for  the  children  of  Israel  have 
forsaken  thy  covenant,  thrown  down  thine  altars,  and  slain  thy 
prophets  with  the  sword;  and  I,  even  I  only,  am  left;  and  they 
seek  my  life,  to  take  it  away.  And  he  said,  Go  forth,  and  stand 
upon  the  mount  before  the  Lord.  And,  behold,  the  Lord  passed 
by,  and  a  great  and  strong  wind  rent  the  mountains,  and  brake 
in  pieces  the  rocks  before  the  Lord;  but  the  Lord  was  not  in  the 
wind:  and  after  the  wind  an  earthquake;  but  the  Lord  was  not 
in  the  earthquake:  and  after  the  earthquake  a  fire ;  but  the  Lord 
was  not  in  the  fire:  and  after  the  fire  a  still  small  voice.  And  it 
was  so,  when  Elijah  heard  it,  that  he  wrapped  his  face  in  his 
mantle,  and  went  out,  and  stood  in  the  entering  in  of  the  cave. 

And,  behold,  there  came  a  voice  unto  him,  and  said.  What 
doest  thou  here,  Elijah?  And  he  said,  I  have  been  very  jealous 
for  the  Lord  God  of  hosts :  because  the  children  of  Israel  have  for- 
saken thy  covenant,  thrown  down  thine  altars,  and  slain  thy 
prophets  with  the  sword;  and  I,  even  I  only,  am  left;  and  they 
seek  my  life,  to  take  it  away.  And  the  Lord  said  unto  him,  Go, 
return  on  thy  way  to  the  wilderness  of  Damascus:  and  when  thou 
comest,  anoint  Hazael  to  be  king  over  Syria:  and  Jehu  the  son  of 
Nimshi  shalt  thou  anoint  to  be  king  over  Israel :  and  Elisha  the 
son  of  Shaphat  of  Abel-meholah  shalt  thou  anoint  to  be  prophet 
in  thy  room.  And  it  shall  come  to  pass,  that  him  that  escapeth 
the  sword  of  Hazael  shall  Jehu  slay:  and  him  that  escapeth  from 
the  sword  of  Jehu  shall  Elisha  slay.  Yet  I  have  left  me  seven 
thousand  in  Israel,  all  the  knees  which  have  not  bowed  unto  Baal, 
and  every  mouth  which  hath  not  kissed  him. 

So  he  departed  thence,  and  found  Elisha  the  son  of  Shaphat, 
who  was  plowing  with  twelve  yoke  of  oxen  before  him,  and  he 
with  the  twelfth:  and  Elijah  passed  by  him,  and  cast  his  mantle 
upon  him.  And  he  left  the  oxen,  and  ran  after  Elijah,  and  said, 
Let  me,  I  pray  thee,  kiss  my  father  and  my  mother,  and  then  I 
will  follow  thee.    And  he  said  unto  him,  Go  back  again:  for  what 


THE  BIBLE  9 

have  I  done  to  thee?  And  he  returned  back  from  him,  and  took 
a  yoke  of  oxen,  and  slew  them,  and  boiled  their  flesh  with  the  in- 
struments of  the  oxen,  and  gave  unto  the  people,  and  they  did 
eat.  Then  he  arose,  and  went  after  Elijah,  and  ministered  unto 
him. 

II 

1  Kings  xxi 

And  it  came  to  pass  after  these  things,  that  Naboth  the  Jez- 
reelite  had  a  vineyard,  which  was  in  Jezreel,  hard  by  the  palace 
of  Ahab  king  of  Samaria.  And  Ahab  spake  unto  Naboth,  say- 
ing. Give  me  thy  vineyard,  that  I  may  have  it  for  a  garden  of 
herbs,  because  it  is  near  unto  my  h'ouse:  and  I  will  give  thee  for 
it  a  better  vineyard  than  it;  or,  if  it  seem  good  to  thee,  I  will  give 
thee  the  worth  of  it  in  money.  And  Naboth  said  to  Ahab,  The 
Lord  forbid  it  me,  that  I  should  give  the  inheritance  of  my  fathers 
unto  thee.  And  Ahab  came  into  his  house  heavy  and  displeased 
because  of  the  word  which  Naboth  the  Jezreelite  had  spoken  to 
him :  for  he  had  said,  I  will  not  give  thee  the  inheritance  of  my 
fathers.  And  he  laid  him  down  upon  his  bed,  and  turned  away 
his  face,  and  would  eat  no  bread. 

But  Jezebel  his  wife  came  to  him,  and  said  unto  him.  Why  is 
thy  spirit  so  sad,  that  thou  eatest  no  bread?  And  he  said  unto 
her.  Because  I  spake  unto  Naboth  the  Jezreelite,  and  said  unto 
him,  Give  me  thy  vineyard  for  money;  or  else,  if  it  please  thee,  I 
will  give  thee  another  vineyard  for  it:  and  he  answered,  I  will  not 
give  thee  my  vineyard.  And  Jezebel  his  wife  said  unto  him.  Dost 
thou  now  govern  the  kingdom  of  Israel?  arise,  and  eat  bread,  and 
let  thine  heart  be  merry:  I  will  give  thee  the  vineyard  of  Naboth 
the  Jezreelite.  So  she  wrote  letters  in  Ahab's  name,  and  sealed 
them  with  his  seal,  and  sent  the  letters  unto  the  elders  and  to  the 
nobles  that  were  in  his  city,  dwelling  with  Naboth.  And  she 
wrote  in  the  letters,  saying,  Proclaim  a  fast,  and  set  Naboth  on 
high  among  the  people :  and  set  two  men,  sons  of  BeUal,  before 


lo  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

him,  to  bear  witness  against  him,  saying,  Thou  didst  blaspheme 
God  and  the  king.  And  then  carry  him  out,  and  stone  him,  that 
he  may  die. 

And  the  men  of  his  city,  even  the  elders  and  the  nobles  who 
were  the  inhabitants  in  his  city,  did  as  Jezebel  had  sent  unto 
them,  and  as  it  was  written  in  the  letters  which  she  had  sent  unto 
them.  They  proclaimed  a  fast,  and  set  Naboth  on  high  among 
the  people.  And  there  came  in  two  men,  children  of  BeUal,  and 
sat  before  him:  and  the  men  of  Belial  witnessed  against  him, 
even  against  Naboth,  in  the  presence  of  the  people,  saying,  Na- 
both did  blaspheme  God  and  the  king.  Then  they  carried  him 
forth  out  of  the  city,  and  stoned  him  with  stones,  that  he  died. 
Then  they  sent  to  Jezebel,  saying,  Naboth  is  stoned,  and  is  dead. 

And  it  came  to  pass,  when  Jezebel  heard  that  Naboth  was 
stoned,  and  was  dead,  that  Jezebel  said  to  Ahab,  Arise,  take 
possession  of  the  vineyard  of  Naboth  the  Jezreelite,  which  he 
refused  to  give  thee  for  money:  for  Naboth  is  not  alive,  but 
dead.  And  it  came  to  pass,  when  Ahab  heard  that  Naboth  was 
dead,  that  Ahab  rose  up  to  go  down  to  the  vineyard  of  Naboth 
the  Jezreelite,  to  take  possession  of  it. 

And  the  word  of  the  Lord  came  to  Elijah  the  Tishbite,  saying, 
Arise,  go  down  to  meet  Ahab  king  of  Israel,  which  is  in  Samaria: 
behold,  he  is  in  the  vineyard  of  Naboth,  whither  he  is  gone  down 
to  possess  it.  And  thou  shalt  speak  unto  him,  saying.  Thus  saith 
the  Lord,  Hast  thou  killed,  and  also  taken  possession?  And  thou 
shalt  speak  unto  him,  saying,  Thus  saith  the  Lord,  In  the  place 
where  dogs  licked  the  blood  of  Naboth  shall  dogs  lick  thy  blood, 
even  thine.  And  Ahab  said  to  Elijah,  Hast  thou  found  me,  O 
mine  enemy?  And  he  answered,  I  have  found  thee:  because 
thou  hast  sold  thyself  to  work  evil  in  the  sight  of  the  Lord.  Be- 
hold, I  will  bring  evil  upon  thee,  and  will  utterly  sweep  thee 
away,  and  will  cut  off  from  Ahab  every  man  child,  and  him 
that  is  shut  up  and  left  in  Israel,  and  will  make  thine  house 
like  the  house  of  Jeroboam  the  son  of  Nebat,  and  like  the 


THE  BIBLE  ii 

house  of  Baasha  the  son  of  Ahijah,  for  the  provocation  where- 
with thou  hast  provoked  me  to  anger,  and  made  Israel  to  sin. 
And  of  Jezebel  also  spake  the  Lord,  saying.  The  dogs  shall  eat 
Jezebel  by  the  wall  of  Jezreel.  Him  that  dieth  of  Ahab  in  the 
city  the  dogs  shall  eat;  and  him  that  dieth  in  the  field  shall  the 
fowls  of  the  air  eat. 

(But  there  was  none  Hke  unto  Ahab,  which  did  sell  himself  to 
work  wickedness  in  the  sight  of  the  Lord,  whom  Jezebel  his  wife 
stirred  up.  And  he  did  very  abominably  in  following  idols,  ac- 
cording to  all  things  as  did  the  Amorites,  whom  the  Lord  cast  out 
before  the  children  of  Israel.) 

And  it  came  to  pass,  when  Ahab  heard  those  words,  that  he 
rent  his  clothes,  and  put  sackcloth  upon  his  flesh,  and  fasted,  and 
lay  in  sackcloth,  and  went  softly.  And  the  word  of  the  Lord 
came  to  Elijah  the  Tishbite,  saying,  Seest  thou  how  Ahab  hum- 
bleth  himself  before  me?  because  he  humbleth  himself  before  me, 
I  will  not  bring  the  evil  in  his  days:  but  in  his  son's  days  will  I 
bring  the  evil  upon  his  house. 


Ill 

1  Kings  xxii,  29-iO 

So  the  king  of  Israel  and  Jehoshaphat  the  king  of  Judah  went 
up  to  Ramoth-gilead.  And  the  king  of  Israel  said  unto  Jehosha- 
phat, I  will  disguise  myself,  and  enter  into  the  battle;  but  put 
thou  on  thy  robes.  And  the  king  of  Israel  disguised  himself,  and 
went  into  the  battle.  But  the  king  of  Syria  commanded  his 
thirty  and  two  captains  that  had  rule  over  his  chariots,  saying, 
Fight  neither  with  small  nor  great,  save  only  with  the  king  of 
Israel.  And  it  came  to  pass,  when  the  captains  of  the  chariots 
saw  Jehoshaphat,  that  they  said.  Surely  it  is  the  king  of  Israel. 
And  they  turned  aside  to  fight  against  him:  and  Jehoshaphat 
cried  out.    And  it  came  to  pass,  when  the  captains  of  the  chariots 


12  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

perceived  that  it  was  not  the  king  of  Israel,  that  they  turned 
back  from  pursuing  him.  And  a  certain  man  drew  a  bow  at  a 
venture,  and  smote  the  king  of  Israel  between  the  joints  of  the 
harness:  wherefore  he  said  unto  the  driver  of  his  chariot.  Turn 
thine  hand,  and  carry  me  out  of  the  host;  for  I  am  wounded. 
And  the  battle  increased  that  day:  and  the  king  was  stayed 
up  in  his  chariot  against  the  Syrians,  and  died  at  even:  and 
the  blood  ran  out  of  the  wound  into  the  midst  of  the  chariot. 
And  there  went  a  proclamation  throughout  the  host  about  the 
going  down  of  the  sun,  saying.  Every  man  to  his  city,  and 
every  man  to  his  own  country. 

So  the  king  died,  and  was  brought  to  Samaria;  and  they 
buried  the  king  in  Samaria.  And  one  washed  the  chariot  in  the 
pool  of  Samaria;  and  the  dogs  hcked  up  his  blood;  and  they 
washed  his  armour;  according  unto  the  word  of  the  Lord  which 
he  spake. 

Now  the  rest  of  the  acts  of  Ahab,  and  all  that  he  did,  and  the 
ivory  house  which  he  made,  and  all  the  cities  that  he  built,  are 
they  not  written  in  the  book  of  the  chronicles  of  the  kings  of 
Israel?  So  Ahab  slept  with  his  fathers;  and  Ahaziah  his  son 
reigned  in  his  stead. 

IV 

2  Kings  ii,  1-12 

And  it  came  to  pass,  when  the  Lord  would  take  up  Elijah  into 
heaven  by  a  whirlwind,  that  Elijah  went  with  Elisha  from  Gilgal. 
And  Elijah  said  unto  EHsha,  Tarry  here,  I  pray  thee;  for  the 
Lord  hath  sent  me  to  Beth-el.  And  Elisha  said  unto  him.  As  the 
Lord  liveth,  and  as  thy  soul  liveth,  I  will  not  leave  thee.  So  they 
went  down  to  Beth-el.  And  the  sons  of  the  prophets  that  were  at 
Beth-el  came  forth  to  Ehsha,  and  said  unto  him,  Knowest  thou 
that  the  Lord  will  take  away  thy  master  from  thy  head  to  day? 
And  he  said,  Yea,  I  know  it;  hold  ye  your  peace.    And  Elijah 


THE  BIBLE  13 

said  unto  him,  Elisha,  tarry  here,  I  pray  thee;  for  the  Lord  hath 
sent  me  to  Jericho.  And  he  said,  As  the  Lord  liveth,  and  as  thy 
soul  liveth,  I  will  not  leave  thee.  So  they  came  to  Jericho.  And 
the  sons  of  the  prophets  that  were  at  Jericho  came  to  Elisha,  and 
said  unto  him,  Knowest  thou  that  the  Lord  will  take  away  thy 
master  from  thy  head  to  day?  And  he  answered,  Yea,  I  know  it; 
hold  ye  your  peace.  And  Elijah  said  unto  him.  Tarry,  I  pray 
thee,  here;  for  the  Lord  hath  sent  me  to  Jordan.  And  he  said, 
As  the  Lord  Hveth,  and  as  thy  soul  liveth,  I  will  not  leave  thee. 

And  they  two  went  on.  And  fifty  men  of  the  sons  of  the 
prophets  went,  and  stood  to  view  afar  off:  and  they  two  stood  by 
Jordan.  And  Elijah  took  his  mantle,  and  wrapped  it  together, 
and  smote  the  waters,  and  they  were  divided  hither  and  thither, 
so  that  they  two  went  over  on  dry  ground.  And  it  came  to  pass, 
when  they  were  gone  over,  that  Elijah  said  unto  Elisha,  Ask 
what  I  shall  do  for  thee,  before  I  be  taken  away  from  thee.  And 
EUsha  said,  I  pray  thee,  let  a  double  portion  of  thy  spirit  be  upon 
me.  And  he  said.  Thou  hast  asked  a  hard  thing :  nevertheless,  if 
thou  see  me  when  I  am  taken  from  thee,  it  shall  be  so  unto  thee; 
but  if  not,  it  shall  not  be  so. 

And  it  came  to  pass,  as  they  still  went  on,  and  talked,  that,  be- 
hold, there  appeared  a  chariot  of  fire,  and  horses  of  fire,  and 
parted  them  both  asunder;  and  Elijah  went  up  by  a  whirlwind 
into  heaven.  And  Elisha  saw  it,  and  he  cried.  My  father,  my 
father,  the  chariot  of  Israel,  and  the  horsemen  thereof.  And  he 
saw  him  no  more:  and  he  took  hold  of  his  own  clothes,  and  rent 
them  in  two  pieces. 


14  PROSE  NARRATIVES 


CUCHULAIN 

Twelfth  Century  (?) 
THE  BATTLE  OF  ROSNAREEi 

[From  Cuchulain  of  Muirthemne  (pronounced  Cu-hoolan  of  Mur-hev- 
na),  translated  by  Lady  Augusta  Gregory,  in  1903 ;  an  Irish  hero-story, 
or  saga,  of  the  wars  between  Ulster  and  Ireland. 

"The  Cuchulain  cycle  of  tales  relates  the  deeds  and  adventures  of  a 
group  of  heroes  called  '  The  Champions  of  the  Red  Branch,'  so  named 
from  one  of  their  three  halls  of  assembly.  Chief  among  these  heroes 
was  Cuchulain,  whose  prowess  began  to  show  itself  in  his  earliest  youth, 
and  whose  courage  and  powers  were  so  extraordinary  that  in  the  long 
and  archaic  tale  which  forms  the  first  and  centre  of  the  series,  called  the 
Tdin  bd  Cuailnge  or  '  Cattle-raid  of  Cooley '  (in  Co.  Down),  he  is  rep- 
resented as  holding  at  bay  single-handed  the  allied  forces  of  Ireland 
through  a  long  series  of  single  combats  which  occupied  a  whole  winter; 
and  this  at  a  time  when  he  was  but  a  youth  and  beardless." — Eleanor 
Hull:  A  Text-Book  of  Irish  Literature,  p.  29. 

"The  hero  Cuchulain  .  .  .  .  is  the  offspring  of  Lugh  (Loo), 
the  Irish  sun-god  ....  From  his  birth  he  is  of  abnormal  devel- 
opment. As  a  child  of  five  he  puts  to  shame  all  the  boys  of  Ulster  in 
their  various  sports;  at  six  he  slays  the  terrible  watch-dog  of  Culann 
the  smith,  from  which  feat  he  gained  his  name  Cu-chulainn,  or  '  Hound 
of  Culann' ;  at  seven  years  he  has  already  taken  arms  and  slain  prime 
warriors  in  single  combat." — Eleanor  Hull:  A  Text-Book  of  Irish 
Literature,  p.  jg  passim. 

"  Cuchulain  had  three  formidable  enemies  who  were  bent  upon  his 
life;  these  were  Lughaidh  (Lewy)  the  son  of  the  Momonian  King 
Curigh,  whom  Cuchulain  had  slain,  Eric,  the  son  of  Cairbre  King 
of  all  Ireland,  who  was  slain  in  the  battle  of  Rosnaree,  and  the  de- 
scendants of  the  wizard  Calatin,  who  with  his  twenty  sons  and  his 
son-in-law  fell  by  Cuchulain  in  one  of  the  combats  at  the  Ford, 
during  the  raid  of  the  Tain." — Douglas  Hyde:  A  Literary  History 
of  Ireland,  p.  341. 

The  Battle  of  Rosnaree  follows  in  time  The  Cattle-raid  of  Cooley,  in 
which  Queen  Maeve's  forces  were  routed  by  King  Conchubar's  men, 
mainly  through  the  prowess  of  Cuchulain,  "the  Irish  Achilles."] 
^  Reprinted  by  kind  permission  of  Lady  Gregory. 


CUCHULAIN  15 

There  was  a  time,  now,  after  the  war  for  the  Bull  of  Cuailgne/ 
when  King  Conchubar  ^  got  someway  down-hearted,  and  there 
was  a  heaviness  on  his  mind. 

And  the  men  of  Ulster  thought  it  might  be  lonesome  he  was, 
and  fretting  after  Deirdre  yet,  and  they  searched  about  through 
the  whole  province  for  a  wife  for  him. 

And  at  last  they  found  a  beautiful  young  girl  of  good  race, 
whose  name  was  Luain,  and  they  brought  her  to  Emain^ 
Macha,  and  a  great  wedding  was  made,  and  great  feasting; 
and  the  king  grew  to  be  quiet  and  happy  in  his  mind.  But 
among  the  men  that  came  to  the  wedding  were  the  two  sons  of 
the  poet  Aithirne,  that  had  such  a  bad  name  for  covetousness 
and  for  cruelty. 

The  two  sons  were  poets  as  well,  Cuingedach  and  Abhartach, 
and  when  they  saw  Luain,  Conchubar 's  queen,  and  she  so  beauti- 
ful, the  two  of  them  fell  in  love  with  her  there  and  then.  And 
they  stopped  at-Emain,  and  after  a  while  each  of  them  tried  to 
gain  her  secret  love.  But  there  was  great  anger  and  displeasure 
on  Luain  at  that,  and  she  drove  them  from  her. 

They  went  home  then  to  their  father,  Aithirne,  and  the  three 
of  them,  to  avenge  themselves  on  Luain,  made  satires  on  her, 
that  brought  blotches  out  on  her  face.  And  when  her  face 
that  was  so  beautiful  was  spoiled  like  that,  she  went  back  and 
hid  herself  in  her  father's  house,  and  with  the  shame  and  the 
sorrow  that  were  on  her,  she  died  there. 

Then  great  anger  and  rage  came  on  Conchubar,  and  he  sent 
the  men  of  Ulster  to  Aithirne's  house,  and  they  killed  himself  and 
his  two  sons,  and  they  pulled  his  house  down  to  the  ground. 

But  the  rest  of  the  poets  of  Ulster  were  not  well  pleased  that 
Conchubar  should  put  such  disrespect  on  one  of  themselves  and 
do  such  a  great  vengeance  on  him,  and  they  gathered  together 
and  gave  Aithirne  a  great  burial  and  keened  him,  and  it  was 
Amergin  that  made  a  lament  over  his  grave. 

^  Pronounced  Cooley.        ^  Pronounced  Con-a-choor.        ^  Pronounced  Avvin. 


i6  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

And  then  Conchubar  stopped  in  Emain  Macha,  and  the  cloud 
of  trouble  came  on  him  again,  and  he  used  to  be  thinking  of  the 
war  for  the  Bull  of  Cuailgne,  and  of  all  that  Maeve's  army  did 
when  he  was  in  his  weakness;  and  he  did  not  sleep  in  the  night, 
and  there  was  no  food  that  pleased  him. 

And  then  the  men  of  Ulster  bid  Cathbad,  the  Druid,  go  to 
Conchubar,  and  rouse  him  out  of  his  sickness. 

So  Cathbad  went  to  him,  and  he  cried  tears  down  when  he  saw 
him,  and  he  said:  "Tell  me,  Conchubar,  what  wound  it  is  or  what 
sickness  has  weakened  you  and  has  made  your  face  so  pale?" 
"It  is  no  wonder  sickness  to  be  on  me,"  said  Conchubar,  "when 
I  think  of  the  way  the  four  provinces  of  Ireland  came  and  de- 
stroyed my  forts  and  my  duns  and  my  walled  towns  and  the 
houses  of  my  people,  and  when  I  think  how  Maeve  brought  away 
cattle  and  gold  and  silver,  and  how  she  came  as  far  as  Dun  Ses- 
cind  and  Dun  Sobairce,^  and  brought  away  Daire's  bull  out  of 
my  own  province.  And  it  is  what  vexes  me,  Maeve  herself  to 
have  got  away  safe  from  the  battle;  and  it  is  time  for  me  to  go 
and  avenge  that  time  on  the  men  of  Ireland,"  he  said.  "That  is 
no  right  thing  you  are  saying,"  said  Cathbad,  "for  the  men  of 
Ulster  did  a  good  vengeance  on  the  men  of  Ireland  the  time  they 
gained  the  battle  of  Ilgaireth."  "  I  do  not  count  any  battle  to  be 
a  battle,"  said  Conchubar,  "unless  a  king  or  a  queen  has  fallen  in 
it;  and  I  swear  by  the  oath  of  my  people,  Cathbad,"  he  said, 
"  that  kings  and  great  men  will  be  brought  to  their  death  by  me, 
or  else  I  myself  will  go  to  my  death." 

"This  is  my  advice  to  you,"  said  Cathbad,  "not  to  set  out  till 
the  winter  is  gone  by;  for  at  this  time  the  winds  are  rough,  and 
the  roads  are  heavy,  and  the  rivers  are  full  and  flooded,  and  every 
windy  gap  is  cold.  It  is  best  to  wait  for  the  summer,"  he  said, 
"  till  the  fords  are  shallow  and  the  roads  are  smooth,  till  the  thick 
leaves  on  the  bushes  will  be  shelters,  till  every  sod  of  grass  will 
be  a  pillow,  till  our  colts  will  be  strong,  till  the  nights  will  be  short 

*  Pronounced  Dom  Severka. 


CUCHULAIN  17 

for  keeping  watch  against  an  enemy.  It  is  best  to  wait,"  he  said, 
"till  you  can  gather  together  the  men  of  Ulster,  and  till  you  can 
send  messengers  to  your  friends  among  the  Gall."  " I  am  willing 
to  do  that,"  said  Conchubar,  "but  I  give  my  word,"  he  said, 
"let  them  come,  or  let  them  not  come,  I  will  go  myself  to  Team- 
hair  ^  to  get  satisfaction  from  Cairbre  Niaf er,  my  own  son-in-law, 
that  did  not  come  to  help  me  at  the  gathering  at  Ilgaireth,  and  to 
Lugaid,  son  of  Curoi,  and  to  Eocha,  son  of  Luchta,  and  to  Maeve, 
and  to  Ailell,  till  I  throw  down  the  stones  over  the-graves  of  their 
chief  men,  till  I  destroy  and  lay  waste  their  country,  the  same 
way  as  the  men  of  Ireland  destroyed  my  province." 

So  then  Conchubar  sent  out  messengers  to  Con  all  Cearnach, 
that  was  raising  his  tribute  in  the  islands  of  Leodus,  and  of 
Cadd,  and  of  Ore,  and  to  the  countries  of  the  Gall,  to  Olaib, 
grandson  of  the  king  of  Norway,  and  to  Baire,  of  the  Scigger 
islands,  and  to  Siugraid  Soga,  king  of  Sudiam;  to  the  seven 
sons  of  Romra,  and  to  the  son  of  the  king  of  Alban,  and  to 
the  king  of  the  island  of  Ore. 

And  the  first  to  answer  the  messengers,  and  to  set  out  for 
Ulster  was  Conall  Cearnach,  for  there  was  great  anger  on  him 
when  he  heard  of  all  that  had  happened  in  Ulster  in  the  war  for 
the  Bull  of  Cuailgne,  and  he  not  in  it.  "And  if  I  had  been  in  it," 
he  said,  "  the  men  of  Connaught  would  not  have  taken  spoil  from 
Ulster,  without  an  equal  vengeance  being  measured  to  themagain." 
And  Olaib,  grandson  of  the  King  of  Norway,  came  with  him,  and 
Baire,  of  the  Scigger  islands,  and  their  men  with  them  in  their 
ships;  and  they  came  through  the  green  waves,  and  the  seals  and 
the  sword-fishes  rising  about  them,  towards  Dundealgan,  and  the 
place  where  they  landed  was  at  the  Strand  of  Baile,  son  of  Buan. 

This,  now,  is  the  story  of  Baile  that  was  buried  at  that  strand. 

He  was  of  the  race  of  Rudraige,  and  although  he  had  but  little 
land  belonging  to  him,  he  was  the  heir  of  Ulster,  and  every  one 
that  saw  him  loved  him,  both  man  and  woman,  because  he  was  so 

^  Pronounced  T'yower. 


i8  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

sweet-spoken;  and  they  called  him  Baile  of  the  Honey-Mouth. 
And  the  one  that  loved  him  best  was  Aillinn,  daughter  of  Lu- 
gaidh,  the  King  of  Leinster's  son.  And  one  time  she  herself  and 
Baile  settled  to  meet  one  another  near  Dundealgan,  beside  the 
sea.  Baile  was  the  first  to  set  out,  and  he  came  from  Emain 
Macha,  over  Slieve  Fuad,  over  Muirthemne,  to  the  strand  where 
they  were  to  meet;  and  he  stopped  there,  and  his  chariots  were 
unyoked,  and  his  horses  were  let  out  to  graze.  And  while  he  and 
his  people  were  waiting  there  they  saw  a  strange,  wild-looking 
man,  coming  towards  them  from  the  South,  as  fast  as  a  hawk  that 
darts  from  a  cliflF  or  as  the  wind  that  blows  from  off  the  green  sea. 
"Go  and  meet  him,"  said  Baile  to  his  people,  "and  ask  him  news 
of  where  he  is  going  and  where  he  comes  from,  and  what  is  the 
reason  of  his  haste."  So  they  asked  news  of  him,  and  he  said: 
"I  am  going  back  now  to  Tuagh  Inbhir,  from  Slieve  Suidhe 
Laighen,^  and  this  is  all  the  news  I  have,  that  Aillinn,  daughter  of 
Lugaidh,  was  on  her  way  to  meet  Baile,  son  of  Buan,  that  she 
loved.  And  the  young  men  of  Leinster  overtook  her,  and  kept 
her  back  from  going  to  him,  and  she  died  of  the  heartbreak  there 
and  then.  For  it  was  foretold  by  Druids  that  were  friendly  to 
them  that  they  would  not  come  together  in  their  lifetime,  but 
that  after  their  death  they  would  meet,  and  be  happy  for  ever 
after."  And  with  that  he  left  them,  and  was  gone  again  Hke  a 
blast  of  wind,  and  they  were  not  able  to  hinder  him. 

And  when  Baile  heard  that  news,  his  life  went  out  from  him, 
and  he  fell  dead  there  on  the  strand. 

And  at  that  time  the  young  girl  Aillinn  was  in  her  sunny  par- 
lour to  the  south,  for  she  had  not  set  out  yet.  And  the  same 
strange  man  came  in  to  her,  and  she  asked  him  where  he  came 
from.  "I  come  from  the  North,"  he  said,  "from  Tuagh  Inver, 
and  I  am  going  past  this  place  to  SUeve  Suidhe  Laighen.  And 
all  the  news  I  have,"  he  said,  "is  that  I  saw  the  men  of  Ulster 
gathered  together  on  the  strand  near  Dundealgan,  and  they 

^  Pronounced  Slieve  see  li''-hon. 


CUCHULAIN  19 

raising  a  stone,  and  writing  on  it  the  name  of  Baile,  son  of  Buan, 
that  died  there  when  he  was  on  his  way  to  meet  the  woman 
he  had  given  his  love  to;  for  it  was  not  meant  for  them  ever  to 
reach  one  another  ahve,  or  that  one  of  them  should  see  the 
other  alive."  And  when  he  had  said  that  he  vanished  away, 
and  as  to  AilHnn,  her  life  went  from  her,  and  she  died  the  same 
way  that  Baile  had  died. 

And  an  apple-tree  grew  out  of  her  grave,  and  a  yew-tree  out  of 
Baile's  grave.  And  it  was  near  that  yew-tree  Conall  Cearnach 
landed,  and  Baire,  and  the  grandson  of  the  king  of  Norway. 
And  Cuchulain  had  made  ready  a  great  feast  for  them,  and 
for  Conchubar  that  had  come  to  meet  them,  at  bright-faced 
Dundealgan. 

And  the  Hound  bade  them  a  kind,  loving  welcome,  and  he 
said:  ''Welcome  to  those  I  know,  and  those  I  do  not  know,  to 
the  good  and  the  bad,  the  young  and  the  old  among  you."  And 
they  stopped  there  a  week,  and  Conchubar  was  well  pleased  to 
see  the  whole  strand  full  of  his  friends  that  were  come  in  their 
ships.  And  then  he  bade  farewell  to  Emer,  daughter  of  Forgall, 
and  he  said  to  Cuchulain:  ''Go  now  to  the  three  fifties  of  old 
fighting  men,  that  are  resting  in  their  age,  under  Irgalach,  son  of 
Macclach,  and  say  to  them  to  come  with  me  to  this  gathering 
and  to  this  war,  the  way  I  will  have  their  help  and  their  advice." 
"Let  them  go  to  it  if  they  have  a  mind,"  said  Cuchulain ;  " but  it 
is  not  I  that  will  go  and  ask  it  of  them." 

So  then  Conchubar  himself  went  to  the  great  house,  where  the 
old  fighting  men  used  to  be  living  that  had  laid  by  their  arms. 
And  when  he  came  in,  they  raised  their  heads  from  their  places 
to  look  at  the  great  king.  And  then  they  leaped  up,  and  they 
said:  "What  has  brought  you  to  us  to  day,  our  chief  and  our 
lord?"  "Did  you  get  no  word,"  he  said,  "of  the  way  the  four 
provinces  of  Ireland  came  against  us,  and  how  they  burned  down 
our  fbrts  and  our  houses,  and  how  they  brought  their  makers  of 
poems  and  of  stories  along  with  them,  that  their  deeds  might  be 


20  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

told,  and  our  disgrace  might  be  the  greater?  And  I  am  going  out 
against  them  now,"  he  said,  "  to  get  satisfaction  from  them;  and 
let  you  come  with  me,  and  I  will  have  your  advice."  Then  the 
hearts  of  the  old  men  rose  in  them,  and  they  caught  their  old 
horses  and  yoked  their  old  chariots.  And  they  went  on  with  the 
king  to  the  mouth  of  the  Water  of  Luachann  that  night. 

And  the  next  day  Conchubar  set  out  with  his  own  men  and  his 
friends  from  beyond  the  sea,  to  Slieve  Breagh,  that  is  near  Ros- 
naree  on  the  Boinne.  And  they  made  their  camp  at  Cuanglas, 
the  green  harbour,  and  lighted  their  fires,  and  music  and  merry 
songs  were  made  for  them.  But  Cuchulain  stopped  behind  in 
Dundealgan  to  gather  his  own  people,  and  to  make  provision  for 
them  on  the  march. 

Now  news  had  been  brought  to  Cairbre  Niafer  at  Team- 
hair,  that  Conchubar  was  gathering  his  men  to  get  satisfaction 
for  all  that  had  been  done  to  Ulster  in  the  war  for  the  Bull  of 
Cuailgne,  and  that  it  was  likely  he  himself  would  be  the  first 
he  would  come  against. 

For  there  was  some  bad  feehng  between  Cairbre  and  the  men 
of  Ulster,  since  the  time  he  drove  the  sons  of  Umor  into  Con- 
naught,  with  the  heavy  rent  he  put  on  them,  and  that  after 
Conall  Cearnach  and  Cuchulain  giving  their  own  security  for 
their  good  behaviour.  They  turned  on  their  securities  after 
that,  and  fought  with  them,  and  Conall  Cool,  the  son  of  their 
chief,  fell;  and  Cuchulain,  and  his  father,  and  his  friends,  raised 
the  heap  of  stones  over  him  that  is  called  Carn  Chonaill,  in  the 
province  of  Connaught. 

And  Cairbre  sent  a  message  to  Cruachan,  to  say  to  Ailell  and 
to  Maeve:  "If  it  is  towards  us  Conchubar  and  the  men  of  Ulster 
are  coming,  let  you  come  to  our  help;  but  if  it  is  past  us  they  go, 
into  the  fair-headed  province  of  Connaught,  we  will  go  to  your 
help."  So  when  Conchubar  came  to  Cuanglas,  at  Rosnaree, 
there  was  a  good  army  gathered  there  to  make  a  stand  against 
him;   the  three  troops  of  the  children  of  Deagha,  and  a  great 


CUCHULAIN  21 

troop  of  the  CoUamnachs,  and  of  the  men  of  Bregia,  and  of  the 
GaiHana.  And  he  rose  up  early  in  the  morning,  and  he  could  see 
the  moving  of  men  and  the  shining  of  spears,  and  he  heard  the 
noise  of  a  great  army,  and  he  said:  ''We  will  send  some  one  of 
our  men  to  bring  us  Word  about  them." 

And  he  sent  out  Feic,  son  of  FoUaman.  And  Feic  went  up  to  a 
hill  beside  the  Boinne,  and  he  began  to  look  at  the  army  and  to 
count  it,  and  it  vexed  him  to  see  how  many  were  in  it.  "If  I  go 
back  now  and  tell  this,"  he  said,  "the  men  of  Ulster  will  come 
and  will  begin  the  battle,  and  there  will  be  no  better  chance  for 
me  to  get  a  great  name  and  do  great  deeds  than  for  any  other 
man.  And  why  would  I  not  go  and  begin  a  fight  now  by  myself?" 
And  with  that  he  crossed  the  river. 

But  the  men  that  were  in  front  caught  sight  of  him,  and  the 
whole  army  began  shouting  around  him,  and  he  had  not  courage 
to  go  against  them,  but  he  turned  to  cross  the  river  again.  But 
he  gave  a  false  leap,  just  where  the  water  was  deepest,  and  a  wave 
laughed  over  him,  and  he  died. 

It  seemed  a  long  time  to  Conchubar  that  he  was  away,  and  he 
said  to  the  men  of  Ulster:  "What  is  your  advice  to  us  about  this 
battle?"  "It  is  what  we  advise,"  they  said,  "to  wait  till  our 
strong  fighters  and  our  chief  men  are  come."  And  they  had  not 
long  to  wait  before  they  saw  troops  coming,  Cathbad  with  twelve 
hundred  men,  and  Amergin  with  twelve  hundred  men,  and 
Eoghan,^  king  of  Fernmaighe,  and  Laegaire  Buadach,  and  the 
three  sons  of  Conall  Buide. 

And  then  they  saw  another  troop  coming,  and  in  the  front  of  it 
a  fierce,  brown  nian.  Rough,  dark  hair  he  had,  and  a  big  nose 
and  hollow  cheeks,  and  his  talk  was  quick  and  hurried.  A  blue 
cloak  about  him,  and  a  brooch  of  silver  as  white  as  a  bird,  a  heavy 
sword,  and  a  shield  with  iron  rims.  And  this  is  who  he  was,  Daire 
of  Cuailgne,  that  was  come  to  get  satisfaction  for  his  bull  and  for 
his  herds  on  the  men  of  Ireland.    "What  is  delaying  you  here?" 

^  Pronounced  Owen. 


2  2  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

he  said  to  Conchubar.  "I  have  good  reason  for  delaying,'*  said 
Conchubar,  "for  there  is  a  great  army  under  Cairbre  Niafer  be- 
fore us  at  Rosnaree,  and  there  are  not  enough  of  us  to  go  against 
them.  And  it  is  not  refusing  a  battle  we  are,  but  waiting  till  we 
get  our  full  number."  " By  my  word,"  said  Daire,  "if  you  do  not 
go  out  against  them,  it  is  I  will  go  against  them  by  myself." 

Then  Conchubar  put  on  his  armour,  and  took  his  many- 
coloured  shield,  and  his  sword,  the  Ochain.  And  all  the  men  of 
Ulster  gathered  around  him,  and  they  raised  their  spears  and 
their  shields,  and  it  was  like  a  great  river  breaking  from  the  side 
of  a  mountain,  and  breaking  what  it  meets  of  stones  and  trees 
before  it,  that  they  went  to  meet  the  men  of  Leinster  at  Rosnaree 
on  the  Boinne. 

And  when  Cairbre  Niafer  and  his  friends  and  his  men  saw  them 
coming,  they  made  ready  for  them,  and  came  towards  the  river. 

And  the  men  of  Ulster  crossed  the  river,  and  the  two  armies 
met,  and  each  of  them  took  to  hacking  and  destroying  the  other. 
And  the  Gailiana  pressed  heavily  on  the  men  of  Ulster,  and  came 
in  to  the  middle  of  them,  and  cut  them  down  Hke  trees  are  cut  in 
a  wood.  And  as  for  Conchubar  he  did  not  give  back,  where  he 
was,  and  Celthair  on  his  right  hand,  and  Amergin  the  poet  on  his 
right  hand  again,  and  Eoghan,  king  of  Fernmaighe,  on  his  left, 
and  Daire  of  Cuailgne  near  him.  These  few  stood  against  the 
GaiUana,  and  fought  against  them,  stout  and  proud.  But  as  to 
the  young  men  and  those  that  were  never  in  a  fight  before,  they 
turned  round  and  burst  through  the  battle  northwards. 

It  was  just  then  Conall  Cearnach  was  coming  in  his  chariot, 
and  when  the  young  men  of  Ulster  saw  the  face  of  Conall,  they 
came  to  a  stop,  and  Conall  saw  that  they  were  beaten  and  run- 
ning from  the  battle,  and  he  called  out  sharp  words  to  them,  for 
there  was  anger  on  him,  they  to  have  left  the  fight,  and  with  no 
sign  of  blood  or  of  wounds  upon  them. 

But  they  were  ashamed  then,  and  content  to  go  back  to  the 
battle,  when  they  had  Conall's  hand  to  help  them;  and  each  one 


CUCHULAIN  23 

of  them  tore  a  green  branch  off  the  oak  trees  that  were  near 
them,  and  held  it  up,  and  they  went  with  him;  for  they  knew 
there  would  be  no  running  away  in  any  place  where  Conall's  face 
would  be  seen. 

And  it  happened  just  at  that  time  Conchubar,  the  High  King, 
was  taking  three  backward  steps  out  of  the  battle  northward,  but 
when  he  saw  the  face  of  Conall  coming  towards  him,  he  called  to 
him  to  stop  the  army  from  falling  back.  "  I  give  my  word,"  said 
Conall,  ''I  think  it  easier  to  fight  the  battle  by  myself  than  to 
stop  the  rout  now." 

And  just  then  the  three  royal  poets  of  the  king  of  Teamhair 
came  to  give  him  their  help,  Eochaid  ^  the  Learned,  and  Diarment 
of  the  Songs,  and  Forgel  the  Just,  and  they  went  into  the  fight 
against  Conall.  And  Conall  looked  at  them  and  he  said:  "  I  give 
my  true  word,"  he  said,  "if  you  were  not  poets  and  men  of  learn- 
ing, you  would  have  got  your  death  by  me  before  this;  and  now 
that  you  are  come  fighting  with  your  master,"  he  said,  "where  is 
there  any  reason  for  sparing  you?"  And  with  that  he  made  a 
blow  at  them  with  a  heavy  stick  that  was  in  his  hand,  that  struck 
the  three  heads  off  them. 

Then  Conall  drew  his  sword  out  of  its  sheath,  and  he  played 
the  music  of  his  sword  on  the  armies  of  Leinster,  and  the  sound  of 
it  was  heard  on  every  side;  and  when  the  men  near  him  heard  it 
their  faces  whitened,  and  each  one  of  them  went  back  to  his  place 
in  the  battle.  And  at  that  time  Cuchulain  came  into  the  battle, 
and  the  men  of  the  Gailiana  gave  wild  shouts  at  him,  and  anger 
came  on  him  and  he  scattered  them. 

And  strength  came  again  into  the  hearts  of  the  men  of  Ulster, 
and  their  anger  rose,  and  the  earth  shook  under  their  feet,  and 
there  was  clashing  of  swords  on  both  sides,  and  the  shouting  of 
young  men,  and  the  screams  of  old  men,  and  the  groaning  of 
chariot-fighters,  and  the  crying  of  ravens.  And  there  were  many 
lying  in  cold  pools,  the  white  soles  of  their  feet  close  together, 

^  Pronounced  Yohee. 


24  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

and  the  red  lips  turning  grey,  and  the  bright  faces  very  pale, 
and  darkness  coming  on  their  grey  eyes,  and  confusion  on  their 
clear  wits. 

It  is  then  Cuchulain  met  with  Cairbre  Niafer,  and  he  went 
against  him,  and  put  his  shield  against  his  shield  and  there 
they  were  face  to  face.  And  Cairbre  said  words  of  insult  to 
Cuchulain,  and  Cuchulain  answered  him  back  and  said:  "It 
is  all  I  ask  of  you,  to  fight  with  me  now  alone."  "I  will  do 
that,"  said  Cairbre  Niafer,  ''for  I  am  a  king  in  my  way  of 
living,  and  a  champion  in  battles." 

Then  each  attacked  the  other,  and  it  was  hard  for  them  to  hold 
their  feet  firm,  or  to  strike  with  their  hands,  in  the  closeness  of 
the  fight.  And  Cairbre  broke  all  his  weapons,  but  nine  of  his 
men  came  and  kept  up  the  fight  against  Cuchulain  till  more 
weapons  could  be  brought  to  him.  And  then  Cuchulain 's  weap- 
ons were  broken,  and  Cairbre  and  nine  of  his  men  came  and  held 
up  their  shields  before  him  till  Laeg  could  bring  him  his  own  right 
weapons,  the  Dubach,  the  grim  one,  his  spear,  and  the  Cruaidin, 
his  sword.  And  then  they  took  to  hitting  at  one  another  again, 
and  at  last  Cuchulain  took  his  spear  into  his  left  hand,  and  struck 
at  Cairbre  with  it,  and  he  lowered  his  shield  to  protect  his  body. 
And  then  Cuchulain  changed  it  to  his  right  hand,  and  struck  at 
him  over  the  rim  of  his  shield,  and  it  went  through  his  heart;  and 
before  his  body  could  reach  the  ground,  Cuchulain  made  a  spring 
and  struck  his  head  off.  And  then  he  held  up  the  head,  and  shook 
it  before  the  two  armies. 

Then  Sencha,  son  of  Ailell,  rose  up  and  shook  the  branch  of 
peace,  and  the  men  of  Ulster  stood  still.  As  to  the  men  of  Lein- 
ster,  when  they  saw  their  king  was  killed,  they  fell  back;  but 
Iriel  of  the  Great  Knees,  the  son  of  Conall  Cearnach,  followed 
after  them,  and  did  a  great  slaughter  on  the  Gailiana  and  on  the 
rest  of  the  army  till  they  reached  to  the  Rye  of  Leinster. 

And  then  the  men  of  Ulster  went  back  to  their  homes.  And  as 
to  Conchubar,  he  went  back  to  Emain,  and  it  was  not  till  a  good 


GRETTIS  SAGA  25 

while  after  that  he  got  the  wound  in  his  head  that  Fintan  sewed 
up  with  gold  thread,  to  match  the  colour  of  his  hair,  and  that 
brought  him  to  his  death  in  the  end. 


GRETTIS  SAGA 

Fourteenth  Century  (?) 

THE  END  OF  GRETTIRi 

[From  the  Story  of  Grettir  the  Strong,  a  translation  (1869)  by  Eirikr 
Magnusson  (1833-1913)  and  William  Morris  (1834-1896). 

The  hero,  cursed  by  the  demon  Glam,  whom  he  has  overcome  in 
fight,  suffers  continual  reverses,  until  finally  he  is  outlawed  by  his 
kinsman,  King  Olaf. 

"Grettir  is  driven  from  his  lairs  one  after  the  other,  and  makes  up 
his  mind  to  try,  as  a  last  resource,  to  set  himself  down  on  the  island  of 
Drangey,  which  rises  up  sheer  from  the  midst  of  Skagafirth  like  a  castle: 
he  goes  to  his  father's  house,  and  bids  farewell  to  his  mother,  and  sets 
off  for  Drangey  in  the  company  of  his  youngest  brother,  lUugi,  who 
wUl  not  leave  him,  in  this  pinch,  and  a  losel  called  'Noise,'  a  good 
joker  (we  are  told)  but  a  slothful,  untrustworthy  poltroon.  The  three 
get  out  to  Drangey,  and  possess  themselves  of  the  live  stock  on  it,  and 
for  a  while  all  goes  well:  the  land-owners  who  held  the  island  in  shares, 
despairing  of  ridding  themselves  of  the  outlaw,  give  their  shares  or  sell 
them  to  one  Thorbiorn  Angle,  a  man  of  good  house,  but  violent,  un- 
popular, and  unscrupulous.  This  man  after  trying  the  obvious  ways 
of  persuasion,  cajolery,  and  assassination  for  getting  the  island  into  his 
hands,  at  last,  with  the  help  of  a  certain  hag,  his  foster-mother,  has 
recourse  to  sorcery." — Translators'  Preface.] 

OF  THE  CARLINE'S  2  EVIL  GIFT  TO  GRETTIR 
Now  wore  away  the  time  of  autumn  till  it  wanted  but  three 
weeks  of  winter;  then  the  carline  bade  bear  her  to  the  sea-shore. 
Thorbiorn  asked  what  she  would  there. 

"Little  is  my  errand,  yet  maybe,"  she  says,  "it  is  a  foreboding 
of  greater  tidings." 

^  Reprinted  by  kind  permission  of  Messrs.  Longmans,  Green  &  Co.,  London. 
2  Old  woman. 


26  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

Now  was  it  done  as  she  bade,  and  when  she  came  down  to  the 
strand,  she  went  Hmping-  along  by  the  sea,  as  if  she  were  led 
thereto,  unto  a  place  where  lay  before  her  an  uprooted  tree,  as 
big  as  a  man  might  bear  on  his  shoulder.  She  looked  at  the  tree 
and  bade  them  turn  it  over  before  her  eyes,  and  on  one  side  it  was 
as  if  singed  and  rubbed;  so  there  whereas  it  was  rubbed  she  let 
cut  a  little  flat  space;  and  then  she  took  her  knife  and  cut  runes 
on  the  root)  and  made  them  red  with  her  blood,  and  sang  witch- 
words  over  them;  then  she  went  backwards  and  widdershins^ 
round  about  the  tree,  and  cast  over  it  many  a  strong  spell;  there- 
after she  let  thrust  the  tree  forth  into  the  sea,  and  spake  in  such 
wise  over  it,  that  it  should  drive  out  to  Drangey,  and  that  Grettir 
should  have  all  hurt  therefrom  that  might  be.  Thereafter  she 
went  back  home  to  Woodwick;  and  Thorbiorn  said  that  he  knew 
not  if  that  would  come  to  aught;  but  the  carline  answered  that 
he  should  wot  better  anon. 

Now  the  wind  blew  landward  up  the  firth,  yet  the  carline's  root 
went  in  the  teeth  of  the  wind,  and  belike  it  sailed  swifter  than 
might  have  been  looked  for  of  it. 

Grettir  abode  in  Drangey  with  his  fellows  as  is  aforesaid,  and  in 
good  case  they  were;  but  the  day  after  the  carline  had  wrought 
her  witch-craft  on  the  tree  the  brothers  went  down  below  the 
cliffs  searching  for  firewood,  so  when  they  came  to  the  west  of  the 
island,  there  they  found  that  tree  drifted  ashore. 

Then  said  lUugi,  ''A  big  log  of  firewood,  kinsman,  let  us  bear 
it  home."   ' 

Grettir  kicked  it  with  his  foot  and  said,  "An  evil  tree  from  evil 
sent;  other  firewood  than  this  shall  we  have." 

Therewithal  he  cast  it  out  into  the  sea,  and  bade  lUugi  beware 
of  bearing  it  home,  "  For  it  is  sent  us  for  our  ill-hap."  And  there- 
with they  went  unto  their  abode,  and  said  nought  about  it  to  the 
thrall.  But  the  next  day  they  found  the  tree  again,  and  it  was 
nigher  to  the  ladders  than  heretofore;  Grettir  drave  it  out  to 
sea,  and  said  that  it  should  never  be  borne  home. 

^  In  a  contrary  direction. 


GRETTIS  SAGA  27 

Now  the  days  wore  on  into  summer,  and  a  gale  came  on  with 
much  wet,  and  the  brothers  were  loth  to  be  abroad,  and  bade 
Noise  go  search  for  firewood. 

He  took  it  ill,  and  said  he  was  ill  served  in  that  he  had  to 
drudge  and  labour  abroad  in  all  the  foulest  weather;  but  withal 
he  went  down  to  the  beach  before  the  ladders  and  found  the  carl- 
ine's  tree  there,  and  deemed  things  had  gone  well  because  of  it; 
so  he  took  it  up  and  bore  it  to  the  hut,  and  cast  it  down  thereby 
with  a  mighty  thump. 

Grettir  heard  it  and  said,  "Noise  has  got  something,  so  I  shall 
go  out  and  see  what  it  is." 

Therewithal  he  took  up  a  wood-axe,  and  went  out,  and  straight- 
way Noise  said,  "Spht  it  up  in  as  good  wise  as  I  have  brought 
it  home,  then." 

Grettir  grew  short  of  temper  with  the  thrall,  and  smote  the 
axe  with  both  hands  at  the  log,  nor  heeded  what  tree  it  was; 
but  as  soon  as  ever  the  axe  touched  the  wood,  it  turned  fiat- 
lings  and  glanced  off  therefrom  into  Grettir 's  right  leg  above 
the  knee,  in  such  wise  that  it  stood  in  the  bone,  and  a  great 
wound  was  that.     Then  he  looked  at  the  tree  and  said, 

"Now  has  evil  heart  prevailed,  nor  will  this  hap  go  alone,  since 
that  same  tree  has  now  come  back  to  us  that  I  have  cast  out  to 
sea  on  these  two  days.  But  for  thee.  Noise,  two  slips  hast  thou 
had,  first,  when  thou  must  needs  let  the  fire  be  slaked,  and  now 
this  bearing  home  of  that  tree  of  ill-hap;  but  if  a  third  thou  hast, 
thy  bane  will  it  be,  and  the  bane  of  us  all." 

With  that  came  Illugi  and  bound  up  Grettir's  hurt,  and  it  bled 
httle,  and  Grettir  slept  well  that  night;  and  so  three  nights 
slipped  by  in  such  wise  that  no  pain  came  of  the  wound,  and 
when  they  loosed  the  swathings,  the  lips  of  the  wound  were  come 
together  so  that  it  was  well-nigh  grown  over  again.  Then  said 
Illugi,  "BeHke  thou  wilt  have  no  long  hurt^of  this  wound." 

"Well  were  it  then,"  said  Grettir,  "but  marvellously  has  this 
befallen,  whatso  may  come  of  it;  and  my  mind  misgives  me  of 
the  way  things  will  take." 


28  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

GRETTIR  SINGS  OF  HIS  GREAT  DEEDS 
Now  they  lay  them  down  that  evening,  but  at  midnight  Grettir 
began  to  tumble  about  exceedingly.  lUugi  asked  why  he  was  so 
unquiet.  Grettir  said  that  his  leg  had  taken  to  paining  him, 
''And  me  thinks  it  is  like  that  some  change  of  hue  there  be 
therein." 

Then  they  kindled  a  light,  and  when  the  swathings  were  un- 
done, the  leg  showed  all  swollen  and  coal-blue,  and  the  wound 
had  broken  open,  and  was  far  more  evil  of  aspect  than  at  first; 
much  pain  there  went  therewith  so  that  he  might  not  abide  at 
rest  in  any  wise,  and  never  came  sleep  on  his  eyes. 

Then  spake  Grettir, ''  Let  us  make  up  our  minds  to  it,  that  this 
sickness  which  I  have  gotten  is  not  done  for  nought,  for  it  is  of 
sorcery,  and  the  carline  is  minded  to  avenge  her  of  that  stone." 

Illugi  said,  ''Yea,  I  told  thee  that  thou  wouldst  get  no  good 
from  that  hag." 

"^//  mil  come  to  one  endj'^  said  Grettir,  and  sang  this  song 

withal  — 

Doubtful  played  the  foredoomed  fate 
Round  the  sword  in  that  debate, 
When  the  bearserks'  outlawed  crew, 
In  the  days  of  yore  I  slew. 
Screamed  the  worm  of  clashing  lands 
When  Hiarandi  dropped  his  hands 
Biorn  and  Gunnar  cast  away, 
Hope  of  dwelling  in  the  day. 

Home  again  then  travelled  I; 
The  broad-boarded  ship  must  lie. 
Under  Door-holm,  as  I  went, 
Still  with  weapon  play  content, 
Through  the  land;  and  there  the  thane 
Called  me  to  the  iron  rain, 
Bade  me  make  the  spear-storm  rise, 
Torfi  Vebrandson  the  wise. 

To  such  plight  the  Skald  was  brought, 
Wounder  of  the  walls  of  thought, 


GRETTIS  SAGA  29 

Howsoever  many  men 
Stood,  all  armed,  about  us  then, 
That  his  hand  that  knew  the  oar. 
Grip  of  sword  might  touch  no  more; 
Yet  to  me  the  wound  who  gave 
Did  he  give  a  horse  to  have. 

Thorbiom  Arnor's  son,  men  said, 
Of  no  great  deed  was  afraid, 
Folk  spake  of  him  far  and  wide; 
He  forbade  me  to  abide 
Longer  on  the  lovely  earth; 
Yet  his  heart  was  little  worth, 
Not  more  safe  alone  was  I, 
Than  when  armed  he  drew  a-nigh. 

From  the  sword's  edge  and  the  spears 
From  my  many  waylayers, 
While  might  was,  and  my  good  day, 
Often  did  I  snatch  away; 
Now  a  hag,  whose  Hfe  outworn 
Wicked  craft  and  ill  hath  borne. 
Meet  for  death  lives  long  enow, 
Grettir's  might  to  overthrow.^ 

"Now  must  we  take  good  heed  to  ourselves,"  said  Grettir, 
"for  Thorbiorn  Angle  must  be  minded  that  this  hap  shall  not  go 
alone;  and  I  will,  Noise,  that  thou  watch  the  ladders  every  day 
from  this  time  forth,  but  pull  them  up  in  the  evening,  and  see 
thou  do  it  well  and  truly,  even  as  though  much  lay  thereon,  but 
if  thou  bewrayest  us,  short  will  be  thy  road  to  ill." 

So  Noise  promised  great  things  concerning  this.  Now  the 
weather  grew  harder,  and  a  north-east  wind  came  on  with  great 
cold:  every  night  Grettir  asked  if  the  ladders  were  drawn  up. 

Then  said  Noise,  "Yea,  certainly!  men  are  above  all  things  to 
be  looked  for  now.    Can  any  man  have  such  a  mind  to  take  thy 

^  This  song  is  obviously  incomplete,  and  the  second  and  third  stanzas  speak  of 
matters  that  do  not  come  into  this  story. — Translators'  note. 


30  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

life,  that  he  will  do  so  much  as  to  slay  himself  therefor?  for  this 
gale  is  far  other  than  fair;  lo  now,  methinks  thy  so  great  bravery 
and  hardihood  has  come  utterly  to  an  end,  if  thou  must  needs 
think  that  all  things  soever  will  be  thy  bane." 

''Worse  wilt  thou  bear  thyself  than  either  of  us,"  said  Grettir, 
*' when  the  need  is  on  us;  but  now  go  watch  the  ladders,  whatso- 
ever will  thou  hast  thereto." 

So  every  morning  they  drave  him  out,  and  ill  he  bore  it. 

But  Grettir 's  hurt  waxed  in  such  wise  that  all  the  leg  swelled 
up,  and  the  thigh  began  to  gather  matter  both  above  and  below, 
and  the  lips  of  the  wound  were  all  turned  out,  so  that  Grettir 's 
death  was  looked  for. 

lUugi  sat  over  him  night  and  day,  and  took  heed  to  nought 
else,  and  by  then  it  was  the  second  week  since  Grettir  hurt 
himself. 

HOW  THORBIORN  ANGLE  GATHERED  FORCE  AND 
SET  SAIL  FOR  ORANGEY 

Thorbiorn  Angle  sat  this  while  at  home  at  Woodwick,  and  was 
ill-content  in  that  he  might  not  win  Grettir;  but  when  a  certain 
space  had  passed  since  the  carhne  had  put  the  sorcery  into  the 
root,  she  comes  to  talk  with  Thorbiorn,  and  asks  if  he  were  not 
minded  to  go  see  Grettir.  He  answers,  that  to  nought  was  his' 
mind  so  made  up  as  that  he  would  not  go;  "perchance  thou  wilt 
go  meet  him,  foster-mother,"  says  Thorbiorn. 

''Nay,  I  shall  not  go  meet  him,"  says  the  carline;  "but  I  have 
sent  my  greeting  to  him,  and  some  hope  I  have  that  it  has  come 
home  to  him;  and  good  it  seems  to  me  that  thou  go  speedily 
to  meet  him,  or  else  shalt  thou  never  have  such  good  hap  as  to 
overcome  him." 

Thorbiorn  answered:  "So  many  shameful  journeys  have  I 
made  thither,  that  there  I  go  not  ever  again ;  moreover  that  alone 
is  full  enough  to  stay  me,  that  such  foul  weather  it  is,  that  it  is 
safe  to  go  nowhither,  whatso  the  need  may  be." 


i 


GRETTIS  SAGA  31 

She  answered:  "  111  counselled  thou  art,  not  to  see  how  to  over- 
come herein.  Now  yet  once  again  will  I  lay  down  a  rede  for  this; 
go  thou  first  and  get  thee  strength  of  men,  and  ride  to  Hof  to  Hall- 
dor  thy  brother-in-law,  and  take  counsel  of  him.  But  if  I  may 
rule  in  some  way  how  Grettir's  health  goes,  how  shall  it  be  said 
that  it  is  past  hope  that  I  may  also  deal  with  the  gale  that  has 
been  veering  about  this  while?" 

Thorbiorn  deemed  it  might  well  be  that  the  carline  saw  further 
than  he  had  thought  she  might,  and  straightway  sent  up  into 
the  country-side  for  men;  but  speedy  answer  there  came  that 
none  of  those  who  had  given  up  their  shares  would  do  aught 
to  ease  his  task,  and  they  said  that  Thorbiorn  should  have  to 
himself  both  the  owning  of  the  island  and  the  onset  on  Grettir. 
But  Tongue-Stein  gave  him  two  of  his  followers,  and  Hialti,  his 
brother,  sent  him  three  men,  and  Eric  of  God-dales  one,  and 
from  his  own  homestead  he  had  six.  So  the  twelve  of  them 
ride  from  Woodwick  out  to  Hof.  Halldor  bade  them  abide  there, 
and  asked  their  errand;  then  Thorbiorn  told  it  as  clearly  as  might 
be.  Halldor  asked  whose  rede  this  might  be,  and  Thorbiorrr 
said  that  his  foster-mother  urged  him  much  thereto. 

"That  will  bear  no  good,"  said  Halldor,  "because  she  is 
cunning  in  sorcery,  and  such-like  things  are  now  forbidden." 

"I  may  not  look  closely  into  all  these  matters  beforehand," 
said  Thorbiorn,  "but  in  somewise  or  other  shall  this  thing  have 
an  end  if  I  may  have  my  will.  Now,  how  shall  I  go  about  it,  so 
that  I  may  come  to  the  island?" 

"Meseems,"  says  Halldor,  "that  thou  trustest  in  somewhat, 
though  I  wot  not  how  good  that  may  be.  But  now  if  thou  wilt 
go  forward  with  it,  go  thou  out  to  Meadness  in  the  Fleets  to  Biorn 
my  friend;  a  good  keel  he  has,  so  tell  him  of  my  word,  that  I 
would  he  should  lend  you  the  craft,  and  thence  ye  may  sail  out 
to  Drangey.  But  the  end  of  your  journey  1  see  not,  if  Grettir 
is  sound  and  hale:  yea,  and  be  thou  sure  that  if  ye  win  him 
not  in  manly  wise,  he  leaves  enough  of  folk  behind  to  take  up 


32  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

the  blood-suit  after  him.  And  slay  not  lUugi  if  ye  may  do  other- 
wise. But  methinks  I  see  that  all  is  not  according  to  Christ's 
law  in  these  redes." 

Then  Halldor  gave  them  six  men  withal  for  their  journey;  one 
was  called  Karr,  another  Thorleif,  and  a  third  Brand,  but  the 
rest  are  not  named. 

So  they  fared  thence,  eighteen  in  company,  out  to  the  Fleets, 
and  came  to  Meadness  and  gave  Biorn  Halldor 's  message;  he  said 
that  it  was  but  due  for  Halldor 's  sake,  but  that  he  owed  nought  to 
Thorbiorn;  ^withal  it  seemed  to  him  that  they  went  on  a  mad 
journey,  and  he  let  them  from  it  all  he  might. 

They  said  they  might  not  turn  back,  and  so  went  down  to  the 
sea,  and  put  forth  the  craft,  and  all  its  gear  was  in  the  boat-stand 
hard  by;  so  they  made  them  ready  for  sailing,  and  foul  enow  the 
weather  seemed  to  all  who  stood  on  land.  But  they  hoisted  sail, 
and  the  craft  shot  swiftly  far  into  the  firth,  but  when  they  came 
out  into  the  main  part  thereof  into  deep  water,  the  wind  abated 
in  such  wise  that  they  deemed  it  blew  none  too  hard. 

So  in  the  evening  at  dusk  they  came  to  Drangey. 

THE  SLAYING  OF  GRETTIR  ASMUNDSON 

Now  it  is  to  be  told,  that  Grettir  was  so  sick,  that  he  might  not 
stand  on  his  feet,  but  lUugi  sat  beside  him,  and  Noise  was  to  keep 
watch  and  ward;  and  many  words  he  had  against  that,  and  said 
that  they  would  still  think  that  life  was  falling  from  them,  though 
nought  had  happened  to  bring  it  about;  so  he  went  out  from 
their  abode  right  unwillingly,  and  when  he  came  to  the  ladders  he 
spake  to  himself  and  said  that  now  he  would  not  draw  them  up; 
withal  he  grew  exceeding  sleepy,  and  lay  down  and  slept  all  day 
long,  and  right  on  till  Thorbiorn  came  to  the  island. 

So  now  they  see  that  the  ladders  are  not  drawn  up;  then  spake 
Thorbiorn,  "Now  are  things  changed  from  what  the  wont  was,  in 
that  there  are  none  afoot,  and  their  ladder  stands  in  its  place 
withal;  maybe  more  things  will  betide  in  this  our  journey  than 


GRETTIS  SAGA  33 

we  had  thought  of  in  the  beginning:  but  now  let  us  hasten  to  the 
hut,  and  let  no  man  lack  courage;  for,  wot  this  well,  that  if  these 
men  are  hale,  each  one  of  us  must  needs  do  his  best." 

Then  they  went  up  on  to  the  island,  and  looked  round  about, 
and  saw  where  a  man  lay  a  little  space  off  the  landing-place,  and 
snored  hard  and  fast.  Therewith  Thorbiorn  knew  Noise,  and 
went  up  to  him  and  drave  the  hilt  of  his  sword  against  the  ear  of 
him,  and  bade  him,  "Wake  up,  beast!  certes  in  evil  stead  is  he 
who  trusts  his  life  to  thy  faith  and  troth." 

Noise  looked  up  thereat  and  said,  "Ah!  now  are  they  minded  to 
go  on  according  to  their  wont;  do  ye,  may-happen,  think  my 
freedom  too  great,  though  I  He  out  here  in  the  cold?" 

"Art  thou  witless,"  said  Angle,  "that  thou  seest  not  that  thy 
foes  are  come  upon  thee,  and  will  slay  you  all?" 

Then  Noise  answered  nought,  but  yelled  out  all  he  might,  when 
he  knew  the  men  who  they  were. 

"Do  one  thing  or  other,"  says  Angle,  "either  hold  thy  peace 
forthwith,  and  tell  us  of  your  abode,  or  else  be  slain  of  us." 

Thereat  was  Noise  as  silent  as  if  he  had  been  thrust  under 
water;  but  Thorbiorn  said,"  Are  they  at  their  hut,  those  brothers? 
Why  are  they  not  afoot?" 

"Scarce  might  that  be,"  said  Noise,  "for  Grettir  is  sick  and 
come  nigh  to  his  death,  and  Illugi  sits  over  him." 

Then  Angle  asked  how  it  was  with  their  health,  and  what 
things  had  befallen.  So  Noise  told  him  in  what  wise  Grettir^s 
hurt  had  come  about. 

Then  Angle  laughed  and  said,  "Yea,  sooth  is  the  old  saw.  Old 
friends  are  the  last  to  sever;  and  this  withal,  ///  if  a  thrall  is  thine 
only  friend  J  whereso  thou  art.  Noise;  for  shamefully  hast  thou 
bewrayed  thy  master,  albeit  he  was  nought  good." 

Then  many  laid  evil  things  to  his  charge  for  his  ill  faith,  and 
beat  him  till  he  was  well-nigh  past  booting  for,  and  let  him  lie 
there;  but  they  went  up  to  the  hut  and  smote  mightily  on 
the  door. 


34  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

*'  Pied-belly^  is  knocking  hard  at  the  door,  brother,"  says  lUugi. 

"Yea,  yea,  hard,  and  over  hard,"  says  Grettir;  and  there- 
withal the  door  brake  asunder. 

Then  sprang  lUugi  to  his  weapons  and  guarded  the  door,  in 
such  wise  that  there  was  no  getting  in  for  them.  Long  time  they 
set  on  him  there,  and  could  bring  nought  against  him  save  spear- 
thrusts,  and  still  lUugi  smote  all  the  spear-heads  from  the  shafts. 
But  when  they  saw  that  they  might  thus  bring  nought  to  pass, 
they  leapt  up  on  to  the  roof  of  the  hut,  and  tore  off  the  thatch ; 
then  Grettir  got  to  his  feet  and  caught  up  a  spear,  and  thrust  out 
betwixt  the  rafters;  but  before  that  stroke  was  Karr,  a  home- 
man  of  Halldor  of  Hof,  and  forthwithal  it  pierced  him  through. 

Then  spoke  Angle,  and  bade  men  fare  warily  and  guard  them- 
selves well,  "for  we  may  prevail  against  them  if  we  follow 
wary  redes." 

So  they  tore  away  the  thatch  from  the  ends  of  the  ridge-beam, 
and  bore  on  the  beam  till  it  brake  asunder. 

Now  Grettir  might  not  rise  from  his  knee,  but  he  caught  up 
the  short-sword,  Karr's-loom,  and  even  therewith  down  leapt 
those  men  in  betwixt  the  walls,  and  a  hard  fray  befell  betwixt 
them.  Grettir  smote  with  the  short-sword  at  Vikar,  one  of  the 
followers  of  Hialti  Thordson,  and  caught  him  on  the  left  shoulder, 
even  as  he  leapt  in  betwixt  the  walls,  and  cleft  him  athwart  the 
shoulder  down  unto  the  right  side,  so  that  the  man  fell  asunder, 
and  the  body  so  smitten  atwain  tumbled  over  on  to  Grettir, 
and  for  that  cause  he  might  not  heave  aloft  the  short-sword  as 
speedily  as  he  would,  and  therewith  Thorbiorn  Angle  thrust  him 
betwixt  the  shoulders,  and  great  was  that  wound  he  gave. 

Then  cried  Grettir,  ^^  Bare  is  the  hack  of  the  brotherless.'^  And 
Illugi  threw  his  shield  over  Grettir,  and  warded  him  in  so  stout  a 
wise  that  all  men  praised  his  defence. 

Then  said  Grettir  to  Angle,  "Who  then  showed  thee  the  way 
here  to  the  island?" 

^  'Pied-belly,'  the  name  of  a  tame  ram. — ^Translators'  note. 


GRETTIS  SAGA  35 

Said  Angle,  "The  Lord  Christ  showed  it  us." 

"Nay,"  said  Grettir,  "but  I  guess  that  the  accursed  hag,  thy 
foster-mother,  showed  it  thee,  for  in  her  redes  must  thou  needs 
have  trusted." 

"All  shall  be  one  to  thee  now,"  said  Angle,  "in  whomsoever  I 
have  put  my  trust." 

Then  they  set  on  them  fiercely,  and  Illugi  made  defence  for 
both  in  most  manly  wise;  but  Grettir  was  utterly  unmeet  for 
fight,  both  for  his  wounds'  sake  and  for  his  sickness.  So  Angle 
bade  bear  down  Illugi  with  shields,  "For  never  have  I  met  his 
like,  amongst  men  of  such  age." 

Now  thus  they  did,  besetting  him  with  beams  and  weapons  till 
he  might  ward  himself  no  longer;  and  then  they  laid  hands  on 
him,  and  so  held  him  fast.  But  he  had  given  some  wound  or 
other  to  the  more  part  of  those  who  had  been  at  the  onset,  and 
had  slain  outright  three  of  Angle's  fellows. 

Thereafter  they  went  up  to  Grettir,  but  he  was  fallen  forward 
on  to  his  face,  and  no  defence  there  was  of  him,  for  that  he  was 
already  come  to  death's  door  by  reason  of  the  hurt  in  his  leg,  for 
all  the  thigh  was  one  sore,  even  up  to  the  small  guts;  but  there 
they  gave  him  many  a  wound,  yet  little  or  nought  he  bled. 

So  when  they  thought  he  was  dead,  Angle  laid  hold  of  the 
short-sword,  and  said  that  he  had  carried  it  long  enough;  but 
Grettir 's  fingers  yet  kept  fast  hold  of  the  grip  thereof,  nor  could 
the  short-sword  be  loosened;  many  went  up  and  tried  at  it,  but 
could  get  nothing  done  therewith;  eight  of  them  were  about  it 
before  the  end,  but  none  the  more  might  bring  it  to  pass. 

Then  said  Angle,  "Why  should  we  spare  this  wood-man  here? 
Lay  his  hand  on  the  block." 

So  when  that  was  done  they  smote  off  his  hand  at  the  wrist, 
and  the  fingers  straightened,  and  were  loosed  from  the  handle. 
Then  Angle  took  the  short-sword  in  both  hands  and  smote  at 
Grettir's  head,  and  a  right  great  stroke  that  was,  so  that  the 
short-sword  might  not  abide  it,  and  a  shard  was  broken  from  the 


36  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

midst  of  the  edge  thereof;  and  when  men  saw  that,  they  asked 
why  he  must  needs  spoil  a  fair  thing  in  such  wise. 

But  Angle  answered,  ''More  easy  is  it  to  know  that  weapon 
now  if  it  should  be  asked  for." 

They  said  it  needed  not  such  a  deed  since  the  man  w^as  dead 
already. 

"Ah!  but  yet  more  shall  be  done,"  said  Angle,  and  hewed 
therewith  twice  or  thrice  at  Grettir's  neck,  or  ever  the  head  came 
off;  and  then  he  spake, 

"Now  know  I  for  sure  that  Grettir  is  dead." 

In  such  wise  Grettir  lost  his  life,  the  bravest  man  of  all  who 
have  dwelt  in  Iceland;  he  lacked  but  one  winter  of  forty-five 
years  whenas  he  was  slain;  but  he  was  fourteen  winters  old  when 
he  slew  Skeggi,  his  first  man-slaying;  and  from  thenceforth  all 
things  turned  to  his  fame,  till  the  time  when  he  dealt  with  Glam, 
the  Thrall;  and  in  those  days  was  he  of  twenty  winters;  but 
when  he  fell  into  outlawry,  he  was  twenty-five  years  old;  but  in 
outlawry  was  he  nigh  nineteen  winters,  and  full  oft  was  he  the 
while  in  great  trials  of  men;  and  such  as  his  life  was,  and  his 
needs,  he  held  well  to  his  faith  and  troth,  and  most  haps  did  he 
foresee,  though  he  might  do  nought  to  meet  them. 


THE  MABINOGION  37 

THE  MABINOGION 

About  the  Fourteenth  Century 

MAXEN'S  DREAM  1 

[From  The  Mabinogion, twelve  tales  from  early  Welsh  literature,  mainly 
from  the  Red  Book  of  Hergest,  a  fourteenth-century  manuscript  in  the 
possession  of  Jesus  College,  Oxford,  and  first  put  into  English  in  1849 
by  Lady  Charlotte  Guest  (18 12-1895). 

"In  early-mediaeval  Wales  the  Bards  were  a  class  by  themselves — 
graduates  in  a  particular  art.  To  obtain  admission  into  the  ranks  of 
this  bardic  hierarchy  the  candidate  had  to  undergo  a  strict  and  definite 
literary  training:  he  had  to  prove  himself  master  of  certain  traditional 
lore.  The  aspirant  to  bardic  rank  was  called  a  Mabinog.  The  tradi- 
tional lore  which  he  had  to  acquire  was  roughly  represented  by  the 
Mabinogi,  which  seems  to  have  been  at  once  a  course  of  study  and  a 
source  of  income,  for  the  Mabinog  was  probably  allowed  by  custom 
to  recite  the  tales  he  knew  for  pay.  Using  Mabinogion  as  the  plural  of 
Mabinogi  Lady  Charlotte  Guest  gives  it  as  the  general  title  of  all  the 
twelve  tales  contained  in  her  book,  although,  strictly  speaking,  the 
title  is  applicable  only  to  the  four-branch  tale  of  Pwyll,  Branwen, 
Manawyddan  and  Math  J' — R.  Williams:  Introduction  to  the  Every- 
man edition,  1906. 

Maxen's  Dream  goes  back  to  the  Roman  occupation  of  Britain.  The 
tale  itself  falls  somewhere,  in  point  of  time,  before  the  growth  of  the 
Arthurian  legend  in  Welsh  literature.] 

Maxen  Wledig  was  emperor  of  Rome,  and  he  was  a  comelier  man, 
and  a  better  and  a  wiser  than  any  emperor  that  had  been  before 
him.  And  one  day  he  held  a  council  of  kings,  and  he  said  to  his 
friends,  "I  desire  to  go  to-morrow  to  hunt."  And  the  next  day 
in  the  morning  he  set  forth  with  his  retinue,  and  came  to  the 
valley  of  the  river  that  flowed  towards  Rome.  And  he  hunted 
through  the  valley  until  mid-day.  And  with  him  also  were  two- 
and- thirty  crowned  kings,  that  were  his  vassals;  not  for  the  de- 
light of  hunting  went  the  emperor  with  them,  but  to  put  himself 
on  equal  terms  with  those  kings. 

^  Reprinted  by  kind  permission  of  Messrs.  J.  M.  Dent  &  Sons,  London. 


38  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

And  the  sun  was  high  in  the  sky  over  their  heads  and  the  heat 
was  great.  And  sleep  came  upon  Maxen  Wledig.  And  his  attend- 
ants stood  and  set  up  their  shields  around  him  upon  the  shafts 
of  their  spears  to  protect  him  from  the  sun,  and  they  placed 
a  gold  enamelled  shield  under  his  head;  and  so  Maxen  slept. 

And  he  saw  a  dream.  And  this  is  the  dream  that  he  saw.  He 
was  journeying  along  the  valley  of  the  river  towards  its  source; 
and  he  came  to  the  highest  mountain  in  the  world.  And  he 
thought  that  the  mountain  was  as  high  as  the  sky;  and  when  he 
came  over  the  mountain,  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  went  through 
the  fairest  and  most  level  regions  that  man  ever  yet  beheld,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  mountain.  And  he  saw  large  and  mighty  rivers 
descending  from  the  mountain  to  the  sea,  and  towards  the 
mouths  of  the  rivers  he  proceeded.  And  as  he  journeyed  thus, 
he  came  to  the  mouth  of  the  largest  river  ever  seen.  And  he  be- 
held a  great  city  at  the  entrance  of  the  river,  and  a  vast  castle  in 
the  city,  and  he  saw  many  high  towers  of  various  colours  in  the 
castle.  And  he  saw  a  fleet  at  the  mouth  of  the  river,  the  largest 
ever  seen.  And  he  saw  one  ship  among  the  fleet;  larger  was  it 
by  far,  and  fairer  than  all  the  others.  Of  such  part  of  the  ship 
as  he  could  see  above  the  water,  one  plank  was  gUded..^«4|,the 
other  silvered  over.  He  saw  a  bridge  of  the  bone  of  a  whikle  f§om 
the  ship  to  the  land,  and  he  thought  that  he  went  atong^the 
bridge,  and  came  into  the  ship.  And  a  sail  was  hoisted  on  lihe 
ship,  and  along  the  sea  and  the  ocean  was  it  borne.  Thei  it 
seemed  that  he  came  to  the  fairest  island  in  the  whole  world,  and 
he  traversed  the  island  from  sea  to  sea,  even  to  the  furthest  shore 
of  the  island.  Valleys  he  saw,  and  steeps,  and  rocks  of  wondrous 
height,  and  rugged  precipices.  Never  yet  saw  he  the  like.  And 
thence  he  beheld  an  island  in  the  sea,  facing  this  rugged  land. 
And  between  him  and  this  island  was  a  country  of  which  the 
plain  was  as  large  as  the  sea,  the  mountain  as  vast  as  the  wood. 
And  from  the  mountain  he  saw  a  river  that  flowed  through  the 
land  and  fell  into  the  sea.    And  at  the  mouth  of  the  river  he  be- 


THE  MABINOGION  39 

held  a  castle,  the  fairest  that  man  ever  saw,  and  the  gate  of  the 
castle  was  open,  and  he  went  into  the  castle.  And  in  the  castle 
he  saw  a  fair  hall,  of  which  the  roof  seemed  to  be  all  gold,  the 
walls  of  the  hall  seemed  to  be  entirely  of  glittering  precious  gems, 
the  doors  all  seemed  to  be  of  gold.  Golden  seats  he  saw  in  the 
hall,  and  silver  tables.  And  on  a  seat  opposite  to  him  he  beheld 
two  auburn-haired  youths  playing  at  chess.  He  saw  a  silver 
board  for  the  chess,  and  golden  pieces  thereon.  The  garments  of 
the  youths  were  of  jet-black  satin,  and  chaplets  of  ruddy  gold 
bound  their  hair,  whereon  were  sparkling  jewels  of  great  price, 
rubies,  and  gems,  alternately  with  imperial  stones.  Buskins  of 
new  Cordovan  leather  on  their  feet,  fastened  by  slides  of  red  gold. 
.  And  beside  a  pillar  in  the  hall  he  saw  a  hoary-headed  man,  in  a 
chair  of  ivory,  with  the  figures  of  two  eagles  of  ruddy  gold  there- 
on. Bracelets  of  gold  were  upon  his  arms,  and  many  rings  were 
on  his  hands,  and  a  golden  torque  about  his  neck;  and  his  hair 
was  bound  with  a  golden  diadem.  He  was  of  powerful  aspect. 
A  chess-board  of  gold  was  before  him,  and  a  rod  of  gold,  and  a 
steel  file  in  his  hand.     And  he  was  carving  out  chessmen. 

And  he  saw  a  maiden  sitting  before  him  in  a  chair  of  ruddy 
gold.  Not  more  easy  than  to  gaze  upon  the  sun  when  brightest, 
was  it  to  look  upon  her  by  reason  of  her  beauty.  A  vest  of  white 
silk  was  upon  the  maiden,  with  clasps  of  red  gold  at  the  breast; 
and  a  surcoat  of  gold  tissue  upon  her,  and  a  frontlet  of  red  gold 
upon  her  head,^d  rubies  and  gems  were  in  the  frontlet,  alter- 
nating with  pearft  and  imperial  stones.  And  a  girdle  of  ruddy  gold 
was  around  her.    She  was  the  fairest  sight  that  man  ever  beheld. 

The  maiden  arose  from  her  chair  before  him,  and  he  threw  his 
arms  about  the  neck  of  the  maiden,  and  they  two  sat  down  to- 
gether in  the  chair  of  gold:  and  the  chair  was  not  less  roomy  for 
them  both,  than  for  the  maiden  alone.  And  as  he  had  his  arms 
about  the  maiden's  neck,  and  his  cheek  by  her  cheek,  behold, 
through  the  chafing  of  the  dogs  at  their  leashing,  and  the  clashing 
of  the  shields  as  they  struck  against  each  other,  and  the  beating 


40  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

together  of  the  shafts  of  the  spears,  and  the  neighing  of  the  horses 
and  their  prancing,  the  emperor  awoke. 

And  when  he  awoke,  nor  spirit  nor  existence  was  left  him,  be- 
cause of  the  maiden  whom  he  had  seen  in  his  sleep,  for  the  love  of 
the  maiden  pervaded  his  whole  frame.  Then  his  household  spake 
unto  him.  *'Lord,"  said  they,  "is  it  not  past  the  time  for  thee  to 
take  thy  food?"  Thereupon  the  emperor  mounted  his  palfrey,  the 
saddest  man  that  mortal  ever  saw,  and  went  forth  towards  Rome. 

And  thus  he  was  during  the  space  of  a  week.  When  they  of  the 
household  went  to  drink  wine  and  mead  out  of  golden  vessels,  he 
went  not  with  any  of  them.  When  they  went  to  listen  to  songs 
and  tales,  he  went  not  with  them  there;  neither  could  he  be 
persuaded  to  do  anything  but  sleep.  And  as  often  as  he 
slept,  he  beheld  in  his  dreams  the  maiden  he  loved  best;  but 
except  when  he  slept  he  saw  nothing  of  her,  for  he  knew  not 
where  in  the  world  she  was. 

One  day  the  page  of  the  chamber  spake  unto  him;  now,  al- 
though he  was  page  of  the  chamber,  he  was  king  of  the  Romans. 
"Lord,"  said  he,  "all  the  people  revile  thee."  "Wherefore  do 
they  revile  me?"  asked  the  emperor.  "Because  they  can  get 
neither  message  nor  answer  from  thee  as  men  should  have  from 
their  lord.  This  is  the  cause  why  thou  art  spoken  evil  of." 
"Youth,"  said  the  emperor,  "do  thou  bring  unto  me  the  wise 
men  of  Rome,  and  I  will  tell  them  wherefore  I  am  sorrowful." 

Then  the  wise  men  of  Rome  were  brought  to  the  emperor,  and 
he  spake  to  them.  "Sages  of  Rome,"  said  he,  "I  have  seen  a 
dream.  And  in  the  dream  I  beheld  a  maiden,  and  because  of  the 
maiden  is  there  neither  life,  nor  spirit,  nor  existence  within  me." 
"Lord,"  they  answered,  "since  thou  judgest  us  worthy  to  coun- 
sel thee,  we  will  give  thee  counsel.  And  this  is  our  counsel;  that 
thou  send  messengers  for  three  years  to  the  three  parts  of  the 
world  to  seek  for  thy  dream.  And  as  thou  knowest  not  what  day 
or  what  night  good  news  may  come  to  thee,  the  hope  thereof  will 
support  thee." 


THE  MABINOGION  41 

So  the  messengers  journeyed  for  the  space  of  a  year,  wander- 
ing about  the  world,  and  seeking  tidings  concerning  his  dream. 
But  when  they  came  back  at  the  end  of  the  year,  they  knew  not 
one  word  more  than  they  did  the  day  they  set  forth.  And  then 
was  the  emperor  exceeding  sorrowful,  for  he  thought  that  he 
should  never  have  tidings  of  her  whom  best  he  loved. 

Then  spoke  the  king  of  the  Romans  unto  the  emperor. 
"Lord,"  said  he,  "go  forth  to  hunt  by  the  way  thou  didst  seem  to 
go,  whether  it  were  to  the  east,  or  to  the  west." 

So  the  emperor  went  forth  to  the  hunt,  and  he  came  to  the  bank 
of  the  river.  "  Behold,"  said  he,  "  this  is  where  I  was  when  I  saw 
the  dream,  and  I  went  towards  the  source  of  the  river  westward." 

And  thereupon  thirteen  messengers  of  the  emperor's  set  forth, 
and  before  them  they  saw  a  high  mountain,  which  seemed  to 
them  to  touch  the  sky.  Now  this  was  the  guise  in  which  the 
messengers  journeyed;  one  sleeve  was  on  the  cap  of  each  of  them 
in  front,  as  a  sign  that  they  were  messengers,  in  order  that 
through  what  hostile  land  soever  they  might  pass  no  harm  might 
be  done  them.  And  when  they  were  come  over  this  mountain, 
they  beheld  vast  plains,  and  large  rivers  flowing  there  through. 
"Behold,"  said  they,  "the  land  which  our  master  saw." 

And  they  went  along  the  mouths  of  the  rivers,  until  they  came 
to  the  mighty  river  which  they  saw  flowing  to  the  sea,  and  the 
vast  city,  and  the  many-coloured  high  towers  in  the  castle. 
They  saw  the  largest  fleet  in  the  world,  in  the  harbour  of  the 
river,  and  one  ship  that  was  larger  than  any  of  the  others.  "Be- 
hold again,"  said  they,  "the  dream  that  our  master  saw."  And 
in  the  great  ship  they  crossed  the  sea,  and  came  to  the  Island  of 
Britain.  And  they  traversed  the  island  until  they  came,  to 
Snowdon.  "Behold,"  said  they,  "the  rugged  land  that  our 
master  saw."  And  they  went  forward  until  they  saw  Anglesey 
before  them,  and  until  they  saw  Arvon  likewise.  "Behold,"  said 
they,  "  the  land  our  master  saw  in  his  sleep."  And  they  saw  Aber 
Sain,  and  a  castle  at  the  mouth  of  the  river.    The  portal  of  the 


42  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

castle  saw  they  open,  and  into  the  castle  they  went,  and  they  saw 
a  hall  in  the  castle.  Then  said  they,  "Behold,  the  hall  which  he 
saw  in  his  sleep."  They  went  into  the  hall,  and  they  beheld  two 
youths  playing  at  chess  on  the  golden  bench.  And  they  beheld 
the  hoary-headed  man  beside  the  pillar,  in  the  ivory  chair,  carv- 
ing chessmen.  And  they  beheld  the  maiden  sitting  on  a  chair  of 
ruddy  gold. 

The  messengers  bent  down  upon  their  knees.  "Empress  of 
Rome,  all  hail!"  "Ha,  gentles,"  said  the  maiden,  "ye  bear  the 
seeming  of  honourable  men,  and  the  badge  of  envoys;  what 
mockery  is  this  ye  do  to  me?"  "We  mock  thee  not,  lady;  but 
the  Emperor  of  Rome  hath  seen  thee  in  his  sleep,  and  he  has 
neither  life  nor  spirit  left  because  of  thee.  Thou  shalt  have  of 
us  therefore  the  choice,  lady,  whether  thou  wilt  go  with  us  and 
be  made  empress  of  Rome,  or  that  the  emperor  come  hither  and 
take  thee  for  his  wife?"  "Ha,  lords,"  said  the  maiden,  "I  will 
not  deny  what  ye  say,  neither  will  I  believe  it  too  well.  If  the 
emperor  love  me,  let  him  come  here  to  seek  me." 

And  by  day  and  night  the  messengers  hied  them  back.  And 
when  their  horses  failed,  they  bought  other  fresh  ones.  And 
when  they  came  to  Rome,  they  saluted  the  emperor,  and  asked 
their  boon,  which  was  given  to  them  according  as  they  named  it. 
"We  will  be  thy  guides,  lord,"  said  they,  "over  sea  and  over 
land,  to  the  place  where  is  the  woman  whom  best  thou  lovest, 
for  we  know  her  name,  and  her  kindred,  and  her  race." 

And  immediately  the  emperor  set  forth  with  his  army.  And 
these  men  were  his  guides.  Towards  the  Island  of  Britain  they 
went  over  the  sea  and  the  deep.  And  he  conquered  the  Island 
from  Beli  the  son  of  Manogan,  and  his  sons,  and  drove  them  to 
the  sea,  and  went  forward  even  unto  Arvon.  And  the  emperor 
knew  the  land  when  he  saw  it.  And  when  he  beheld  the  castle  of 
Aber  Sain,  "Look  yonder,"  said  he,  "there  is  the  castle  wherein 
I  saw  the  damsel  whom  I  best  love."  And  he  went  forward  into 
the  castle  and  into  the  hall,  and  there  he  saw  Kynan  the  son  of 


THE  MABINOGION  43 

Eudav,  and  Adeon  the  son  of  Eudav,  playing  at  chess.  And  he 
saw  Eudav  the  son  of  Caradawc,  sitting  on  a  chair  of  ivory- 
carving  chessmen.  And  the  maiden  whom  he  had  beheld  in  his 
sleep,  he  saw  sitting  on  a  chair  of  gold.  "  Empress  of  Rome,"  said 
he,  "all  hail!"  And  the  emperor  threw  his  arms  about  her  neck; 
and  that  night  she  became  his  bride. 

And  the  next  day  in  the  morning,  the  damsel  asked  her  maiden 
portion.  And  he  told  her  to  name  what  she  would.  And  she 
asked  to  have  the  Island  of  Britain  for  her  father,  from  the  Chan- 
nel to  the  Irish  Sea,  together  with  the  three  adjacent  Islands,  to 
hold  under  the  empress  of  Rome;  and  to  have  three  chief  castles 
made  for  her,  in  whatever  places  she  might  choose  in  the  Island 
of  Britain.  And  she  chose  to  have  the  highest  castle  made  at  Ar- 
von.  And  they  brought  thither  earth  from  Rome  that  it  might 
be  more  healthful  for  the  emperor  to  sleep,  and  sit,  and  walk 
upon.  After  that  the  two  other  castles  were  made  for  her,  which 
were  Caerlleon  and  Caermarthen. 

And  one  day  the  emperor  went  to  hunt  at  Caermarthen,  and 
he  came  so  far  as  the  top  of  Brevi  Vawr,  and  there  the  emperor 
pitched  his  tent.  And  that  encamping  place  is  called  Cadeir 
Maxen,  even  to  this  day.  And  because  that  he  built  the  castle 
with  a  myriad  of  men,  he  called  it  Caervyrddin.  Then  Helen 
bethought  her  to  make  high  roads  from  one  castle  to  another 
throughout  the  Island  of  Britain.  And  the  roads  were  made. 
And  for  this  cause  are  they  called  the  roads  of  Helen  Luyddawc, 
that  she  was  sprung  from  a  native  of  this  island,  and  the  men 
of  the  Island  of  Britain  would  not  have  made  these  great  roads 
for  any  save  for  her. 

Seven  years  did  the  emperor  tarry  in  this  Island.  Now,  at  that 
time,  the  men  of  Rome  had  a  custom,  that  whatsoever  emperor 
should  remain  in  other  lands  more  than  seven  years  should  remain 
to  his  own  overthrow,  and  should  never  return  to  Rome  again. 

So  they  made  a  new  emperor.  And  this  one  wrote  a  letter  of 
threat  to  Maxen.    There  was  nought  in  the  letter  but  only  this. 


44  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

"If  thou  comest,  and  if  thou  ever  comest  to  Rome."  And  even 
unto  Caerlleon  came  this  letter  to  Maxen,  and  these  tidings. 
Then  sent  he  a  letter  to  the  man  who  styled  himself  emperor  in 
Rome.  There  was  nought  in  that  letter  also  but  only  this.  "  If  I 
come  to  Rome,  and  if  I  come." 

And  thereupon  Maxen  set  forth  towards  Rome  with  his  army, 
and  vanquished  France  and  Burgundy,  and  every  land  on  the 
way,  and  sat  down  before  the  city  of  Rome. 

A  year  was  the  emperor  before  the  city,  and  he  was  no  nearer 
taking  it  than  the  first  day.  And  after  him  there  came  the  brothers 
of  Helen  Luyddawc  from  the  Island  of  Britain,  and  a  small  host 
with  them,  and  better  warriors  were  in  that  small  host  than  twice 
as  many  Romans.  And  the  emperor  was  told  that  a  host  was 
seen,  halting  close  to  his  army  and  encamping,  and  no  man 
ever  saw  a  fairer  or  better  appointed  host  for  its  size,  nor  more 
handsome  standards. 

And  Helen  went  to  see  the  hosts,  and  she  knew  the  standards 
of  her  brothers.  Then  came  Kynan  the  son  of  Eudav,  and  Adeon 
the  son  of  Eudav,  to  meet  the  emperor.  And  the  emperor  was 
glad  because  of  them,  and  embraced  them. 

Then  they  looked  at  the  Romans  as  they  attacked  the  city. 
Said  Kynan  to  his  brother,  ''We  will  try  to  attack  the  city  more 
expertly  than  this."  So  they  measured  by  night  the  height  of  the 
wall,  and  they  sent  their  carpenters  to  the  wood,  and  a  ladder  was 
made  for  every  four  men  of  their  number.  Now  when  these  were 
ready,  every  day  at  mid-day  the  emperors  went  to  meat,  and 
they  ceased  to  fight  on  both  sides  till  all  had  finished  eating. 
And  in  the  morning  the  men  of  Britain  took  their  food.  And  they 
drank  until  they  were  invigorated.  And  while  the  two  emperors 
were  at  meat,  the  Britons  came  to  the  city,  and  placed  their 
ladders  against  it,  and  forthwith  they  came  in  through  the  city. 

The  new  emperor  had  no  time  to  arm  himself  when  they  fell 
upon  him,  and  slew  him,  and  many  others  with  him.  And  three 
nights  and  three  days  were  they  subduing  the  men  that  were  in 


THE  MABINOGION  45 

the  city  and  taking  the  castle.  And  others  of  them  kept  the  city, 
lest  any  of  the  host  of  Maxen  should  come  therein,  until  they  had 
subjected  all  to  their  will. 

Then  spake  Maxen  to  Helen  Luyddawc.  "I  marvel,  lady," 
said  he,  "  that  thy  brothers  have  not  conquered  this  city  for  me." 
"Lord,  emperor,"  she  answered,  "the  wisest  youths  in  the  world 
are  my  brothers.  Go  thou  thither  and  ask  the  city  of  them,  and 
if  it  be  in  their  possession  thou  shalt  have  it  gladly."  So  the 
emperor  and  Helen  went  and  demanded  the  city.  And  they  told 
the  emperor  that  none  had  taken  the  city,  and  that  none  could 
give  it  him,  but  the  men  of  the  Island  of  Britain.  Then  the  gates 
of  the  city  of  Rome  were  opened,  and  the  emperor  sat  on  the 
throne,  and  all  the  men  of  Rome  submitted  themselves  unto  him. 

The  emperor  then  said  unto  Kynan  and  Adeon,  "Lords,"  said 
he,  "  I  have  now  had  possession  of  the  whole  of  my  empire.  This 
host  give  I  unto  you  to  vanquish  whatever  region  ye  may  desire 
in  the  world." 

So  they  set  forth  and  conquered  lands,  and  castles,  and  cities. 
And  they  slew  all  the  men,  but  the  women  they  kept  alive.  And 
thus  they  continued  until  the  young  men  that  had  come  with 
them  were  grown  grey-headed,  from  the  length  of  time  they  were 
upon  this  conquest. 

Then  spoke  Kynan  unto  Adeon  his  brother,  "Whether  wilt 
thou  rather,"  said  he,  "  tarry  in  this  land,  or  go  back  into  the  land 
whence  thou  didst  come  forth?"  Now  he  chose  to  go  back  to 
his  own  land,  and  many  with  him.  But  Kynan  tarried  there  with 
the  other  part  and  dwelt  there. 

And  they  took  counsel  and  cut  out  the  tongues  of  the  women, 
lest  they  should  corrupt  their  speech.  And  because  of  the  silence 
of  the  women  from  their  own  speech,  the  men  of  Armorica  are 
called  Britons.  From  that  time  there  came  frequently,  and  still 
comes,  that  language  from  the  Island  of  Britain. 

And  this  dream  is  called  the  Dream  of  Maxen  Wledig,  emperor 
of  Rome.    And  here  it  ends. 


46  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

SIR  THOMAS  MALORY 

Fifteenth  Century 

THE  SANGREAL 

[From  Le  Morte  D^ Arthur,  translated  from  the  French  by  Malory  in 
1469,  and  pubHshed  by  Caxton  in  1485. 

Books  XIII-XVII  tell  ''the  noble  tale  of  the  Sangreal,  that  is 
called  the  holy  vessel" — the  cup  in  which  the  blood  of  Our  Lord  at 
Calvary  was  caught;  "blessed  mote  it  be,  the  which  was  brought  into 
this  land  by  Joseph  of  Aramathie."  The  story  tells  of  the  miraculous 
appearance  of  the  grail,  the  vows  of  King  Arthur's  knights,  and  divers 
of  their  adventures  in  the  quest.  The  selection  is  adapted  from 
Book  XVII,  chapters  ix-xviii.] 

HOW  THE    THREE    KNIGHTS,   WITH   PERCIVALE'S    SISTER,   CAME 

,  UNTO  THE  SAME  FOREST,  AND  OF  AN  HART  AND 

FOUR  LIONS,  AND  OTHER  THINGS 

Right  SO  departed  the  three  knights,  and  Percivale's  sister  with 
them.  And  so  they  came  into  a  waste  forest,  and  there  they  saw 
afore  them-  a  white  hart  which  four  lions  led.  Then  they  took 
them  to  assent  for  to  follow  after  for  to  know  whither  they  re- 
paired; and  so  they  rode  after  a  great  pace  till  that  they  came 
to  a  valley,  and  thereby  was  an  hermitage  where  a  good  man 
dwelled,  and  the  hart  and  the  lions  entered  also.  So  when  they 
saw  all  this  they  turned  to  the  chapel,  and  saw  the  good  man 
in  a  religious  weed  and  in  the  armour  of  Our  Lord,  for  he  would 
sing  mass  of  the  Holy  Ghost;  and  so  they  entered  in  and  heard 
mass. 

And  at  the  secrets  of  the  mass  they  three  saw  the  hart  become 
a  man,  the  which  marvelled  them,  and  set  him  upon  the  altar  in 
a  rich  siege;  and  saw  the  four  lions  were  changed,  the  one  to  the 
form  of  a  man,  the  other  to  the  form  of  a  lion,  and  the  third  to  an 
eagle,  and  the  fourth  was  changed  unto  an  ox.  Then  took  they 
their  siege  where  the  hart  sat,  and  went  out  through  a  glass  win- 
dow, and  there  was  nothing  perished  nor  broken;  and  they  heard 


SIR  THOMAS  MALORY  47 

a  voice  say:  In  such  a  manner  entered  the  Son  of  God  in  the 
womb  of  a  maid  Mary,  whose  virginity  ne  was  perished  ne  hurt. 
And  when  they  heard  these  words  they  fell  down  to  the  earth  and 
were  astonied;  and  therewith  was  a  great  clereness. 

And  when  they  were  come  to  theirself  again  they  went  to  the 
good  man  and  prayed  him  that  he  would  say  them  truth.  What 
thing  have  ye  seen?  said  he.  And  they  told  him  all  that  they  had 
seen.  Ah  lords,  said  he,  ye  be  welcome;  now  wot  I  well  ye  be  the 
good  knights  the  which  shall  bring  the  Sangreal  to  an  end;  for  ye 
be  they  unto  whom  Our  Lord  shall  shew  great  secrets.  And  well 
ought  Our  Lord  be  signified  to  an  hart,  for  the  hart  when  he  is  old 
he  waxeth  young  again  in  his  white  skin.  Right  so  cometh  again 
Our  Lord  from  death  to  life,  for  He  lost  earthly  flesh  that  was  the 
deadly  flesh,  which  He  had  taken  in  the  womb  of  the  blessed  Vir- 
gin Mary;  and  for  that  cause  appeared  Our  Lord  as  a  white  hart 
without  spot.  And  the  four  tha  t  were  with  Him  is  to  understand 
the  four  evangeUsts  which  set  in  writing  a  part  of  Jesu  Christ's 
deeds  that  He  did  sometime  when  He  was  among  you  an  earthly 
man;  for  wit  ye  well  never  erst  ne  might  no  knight  know  the 
truth,  for  of ttim_es  or  this  Our  Lord  showed  Him  unto  good  men 
and  unto  good  knights,  in  likeness  of  an  hart,  but  I  suppose  from 
henceforth  ye  shall  see  no  more. 

And  then  they  joyed  much,  and  dwelled  there  all  that  day. 
And  upon  the  morrow  when  they  had  heard  mass  they  departed 
and  commended  the  good  man  to  God:  and  so  they  came  to  a 
castle  and  passed  by.  So  there  came  a  knight  armed  after  them 
and  said:  Lords,  hark  what  1  shall  say  to  you. 

HOW  THEY  WERE  DESIRED  OF  A  STRANGE  CUSTOM,  THE  WHICH 

THEY  WOULD  NOT  OBEY;   AND  HOW  THEY  FOUGHT 

AND  SLEW  MANY  KNIGHTS 

This  gentlewoman  that  ye  lead  with  you  is  a  maid?  Sir,  said  she, 
a  maid  I  am.  Then  he  took  her  by  the  bridle  and  said:  By  the 
Holy  Cross,  ye  shall  not  escape  me  tofore  ye  have  yolden  the  cus- 


48  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

torn  of  this  castle.  Let  her  go,  said  Percivale,  ye  be  not  wise,  for 
a  maid  in  what  place  she  cometh  is  free.  So  in  the  meanwhile 
there  came  out  a  ten  or  twelve  knights  armed,  out  of  the  castle, 
and  with  them  came  gentlewomen  which  held  a  dish  of  silver. 
And  then  they  said:  This  gentlewoman  must  yield  us  the  custom 
of  this  castle.  Sir,  said  a  knight,  what  maid  passe th  hereby  shall 
give  this  dish  full  of  blood  of  her  right  arm.  Blame  have  ye,  said 
Galahad,  that  brought  up  such  customs,  and  so  God  me  save,  I 
ensure  you  of  this  gentlewoman  ye  shall  fail  while  that  I  live. 
So  God  me  help,  said  Percivale,  I  had  lever  be  slain.  And  I  also, 
said  Sir  Bors.  By  my  troth,  said  the  knight,  then  shall  ye  die, 
for  ye  may  not  endure  against  us  though  ye  were  the  best  knights 
of  the  world. 

Then  let  them  run  each  to  other,  and  the  three  fellows  beat 
the  ten  knights,  and  then  set  their  hands  to  their  swords  and 
beat  them  down  and  slew  them.  Then  there  came  out  of  the 
castle  a  three  score  knights  armed.  Fair  lords,  said  the  three  fel- 
lows, have  mercy  on  yourself  and  have  not  ado  with  us.  Nay, 
fair  lords,  said  the  knights  of  the  castle,  we  counsel  you  to  with- 
draw you,  for  ye  be  the  best  knights  of  the  world,  and  therefore 
do  no  more,  for  ye  have  done  enough.  We  will  let  you  go  with 
this  harm,  but  we  must  needs  have  the  custom.  Certes,  said 
Galahad,  for  nought  speak  ye.  Well,  said  they,  will  ye  die?  We 
be  not  yet  come  thereto,  said  Galahad.  Then  began  they  to 
meddle  together,  and  Galahad,  with  the  strange  girdles,  drew  his 
sword,  and  smote  on  the  right  hand  and  on  the  left  hand,  and 
slew  what  that  ever  abode  him,  and  did  such  marvels  that  there 
was  none  that  saw  him  but  weened  he  had  been  none  earthly 
man,  but  a  monster.  And  his  two  fellows  halp  him  passing  well, 
and  so  they  held  the  journey  every  each  in  like  hard  till  it  was 
night:  then  must  they  needs  depart. 

So  came  in  a  good  knight,  and  said  to  the  three  fellows:  If  ye 
will  come  in  to-night  and  take  such  harbour  as  here  is  ye  shall  be 
right  welcome,  and  we  shall  ensure  you  by  the  faith  of  our  bodies, 


SIR  THOMAS  MALORY  49 

and  as  we  be  true  knights,  to  leave  you  in  such  estate  to-morrow 
as  we  find  you,  without  any  falsehood.  And  as  soon  as  ye  know 
of  the  custom  we  dare  say  ye  will  accord.  Therefore  for  God's 
love,  said  the  gentlewoman,  go  thither  and  spare  not  for  me.  Go 
we,  said  Galahad;  and  so  they  entered  into  the  chapel.  And 
when  they  were  aht  they  made  great  joy  of  them.  So  within  a 
while  the  three  knights  asked  the  custom  of  the  castle  and  where- 
fore it  was.    What  it  is,  said  they,  we  will  say  you  sooth. 

HOW  SIR  PERCIVALE'S  SISTER  BLED  A  DISH  FULL  OF  BLOOD  FOR 

TO  HEAL  A  LADY,  WHEREFORE  SHE  DIED;  AND  HOW 

THAT  THE  BODY  WAS  PUT  IN  A  SHIP 

There  is  in  this  castle  a  gentlewoman  which  we  and  this  castle  is 
hers,  and  many  other.  So  it  befell  many  years  agone  there  fell 
upon  her  a  malady;  and  when  she  had  lain  a  great  while  she  fell 
unto  a  measle,  and  of  no  leech  she  could  have  no  remedy.  But 
at  the  last  an  old  man  said  an  she  might  have  a  dish  full  of  blood 
of  a  maid  and  a  clene  virgin  in  will  and  in  work,  and  a  king's 
daughter,  that  blood  should  be  her  health,  and  for  to  anoint  her 
withal;  and  for  this  thing  was  this  custom  made. 

Now,  said  Percivale's  sister,  fair  knights,  I  see  well  that  this 
gentlewoman  is  but  dead.  Certes,  said  Galahad,  an  ye  bleed  so 
much  ye  may  die.  Truly,  said  she,  an  I  die  for  to  heal  her  I  shall 
get  me  great  worship  and  soul's  health,  and  worship  to  my  lineage, 
and  better  is  one  harm  than  twain.  And  therefore  there  shall  be 
no  more  battle,  but  tomorn  I  shall  yield  you  your  custom  of  this 
castle.  And  then  there  was  great  joy  more  than  there  was  tofore, 
for  else  had  there  been  mortal  war  upon  the  morn;  notwithstand- 
ing she  would  none  other,  whether  they  would  or  nold.  That 
night  were  the  three  fellows  eased  with  the  best;  and  on  the 
morn  they  heard  mass,  and  Sir  Percivale's  sister  bad  bring  forth 
the  sick  lady.  So  she  was,  the  which  was  evil  at  ease.  Then  said 
she:  Who  shall  let  me  blood?  So  one  came  forth  and  let  her 
blood,  and  she  bled  so  much  that  the  dish  was  full.  Then  she  lift 
4 


50  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

up  her  hand  and  blessed  her;  and  then  she  said  to  the  lady: 
Madam,  I  am  come  to  the  death  for  to  make  you  whole,  for  God's 
love  pray  for  me.  With  that  she  fell  in  a  swoon.  Then  Galahad 
and  his  two  fellows  start  up  to  her,  and  hf t  her  up  and  staunched 
her,  but  she  had  bled  so  much  that  she  might  not  Hve.  Then 
she  said  when  she  was  awaked:  Fair  brother  Percivale,  I  die  for 
the  healing  of  this  lady,  so  I  require  you  that  ye  bury  me  not  in 
this  country,  but  as  soon  as  I  am  dead  put  me  in  a  boat  at  the 
next  haven,  and  let  me  go  as  adventure  will  lead  me;  and  as  soon 
as  ye  three  come  to  the  City  of  Sarras,  there  to  achieve  the  Holy 
Grail,  ye  shall  find  me  under  a  tower  arrived,  and  there  bury  me 
in  the  spiritual  place;  for  I  say  you  so  much,  there  Galahad  shall 
be  buried,  and  ye  also,  in  the  same  place.  Then  Percivale  under- 
stood these  words,  and  granted  it  her,  weeping.  And  then  said  a 
voic'e:  Lords  and  fellows,  to-morrow  at  the  hour  of  prime  ye 
three  shall  depart  every  each  from  other,  till  the  adventure  bring 
you  to  the  maimed  king.  Then  asked  she  her  Saviour;  and  as 
soon  as  she  had  received  it  the  soul  departed  from  the  body.  So 
the  same  day  was  the  lady  healed,  when  she  was  anointed  withal. 

Then  Sir  Percivale  made  a  letter  of  all  that  she  had  holpen 
them  as  in  strange  adventures,  and  put  it  in  her  right  hand,  and 
so  laid  her  in  a  barge,  and  covered  it  with  black  silk;  and  so  the 
wind  arose,  and  drove  the  barge  from  the  land,  and  all  knights 
beheld  it  till  it  was  out  of  their  sight.  Then  they  drew  all  to  the 
castle,  and  so  forthwith  there  fell  a  sudden  tempest  and  a  thun- 
der, lightning,  and  rain,  as  all  the  earth  would  have  broken.  So 
half  the  castle  turned  up  so  down.  So  it  passed  evensong  or  the 
tempest  was  ceased. 

Then  they  saw  afore  them  a  knight  armed  and  wounded  hard 
in  the  body  and  in  the  head,  that  said:  O  God,  succour  me  for 
now  it  is  need.  After  this  knight  came  another  knight  and  a 
dwarf,  which  cried  to  them  afar:  Stand,  ye  may  not  escape. 
Then  the  wounded  knight  held  up  his  hands  to  God  that  he 
should  not  die  in  such  tribulation.    Truly,  said  Galahad,  I  shall 


SIR  THOMAS  MALORY  51 

succour  him  for  His  sake  that  he  calleth  upon.  Sir,  said  Bors,  I 
shall  do  it,  for  it  is  not  for  you,  for  he  is  but  one  knight.  Sir,  said 
he,  I  grant.  So  Sir  Bors  took  his  horse,  and  commended  him  to 
God,  and  rode  after,  to  rescue  the  wounded  knight.  Now  turn 
we  to  the  two  fellows. 

HOW  GALAHAD  AND  PERCIVALE  FOUND  IN  A  CASTLE  MANY  TOMBS 
OF  MAHDENS  THAT  HAD  BLED  TO  DEATH 

Now  saith  the  story  that  all  night  Galahad  and  Percivale  were 
in  a  chapel  in  their  prayers,  for  to  save  Sir  Bors.  So  on  the  mor- 
row they  dressed  them  in  their  harness  toward  the  castle,  to  wit 
what  was  fallen  of  them  therein.  And  when  they  came  there 
they  foimd  neither  man  nor  woman  that  he  ne  was  dead  by  the 
vengeance  of  Our  Lord.  With  that  they  heard  a  voice  that  said: 
This  vengeance  is  for  blood  shedding  of  maidens.  Also  they 
found  at  the  end  of  the  chapel  a  churchyard,  and  therein  might 
they  see  a  three  score  fair  tombs,  and  that  place  was  so  fair  and 
so  delectable  that  it  seemed  them  there  had  been  none  tempest, 
for  there  lay  the  bodies  of  all  the  good  maidens  which  were  mar- 
tyred for  the  sick  lady's  sake.  Also  they  found  the  names  of 
every  each,  and  of  what  blood  they  were  come,  and  all  were  of 
kings'  blood,  and  twelve  of  them  were  kings'  daughters. 

Then  they  departed  and  went  into  a  forest.  Now,  said  Perci- 
vale unto  Galahad,  we  must  depart,  so  pray  we  Our  Lord  that 
we  may  meet  together  in  short  time:  then  they  did  oflF  their 
helms  and  kissed  together,  and  wept  at  their  departing. 

HOW    SIR    LAUNCELOT    ENTERED    INTO    THE    SHIP    WHERE    SIR 

PERCIVALE'S   SISTER   LAY  DEAD,  AND    HOW  PE    MET 

WITH  SIR  GALAHAD,  HIS  SON 

Now  saith  the  history,  that  when  Launcelot  was  come  to  the 
water  of  Mortoise,  as  it  is  rehearsed  before,  he  was  in  great  peril, 
and  so  he  laid  him  down  and  slept,  and  took  the  adventure  that 
God  would  send  him.    So  when  he  was  asleep  there  came  a  vision 


52  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

unto  him  and  said:  Launcelot,  arise  up  and  take  thine  armour, 
and  enter  into  the  first  ship  that  thou  shalt  find.  And  when  he 
heard  these  words  he  start  up  and  saw  great  clereness  about  him. 
And  then  he  hft  up  his  hand  and  blessed  him,  and  so  took  his 
arms  and  made  him  ready;  and  so  by  adventure  he  came  by  a 
strand,  and  found  a  ship  the  which  was  without  sail  or  oar.  And 
as  soon  as  he  was  within  the  ship  there  he  felt  the  most  sweetness 
that  ever  he  felt,  and  he  was  fulfilled  with  all  thing  that  he 
thought  on  or  desired.  Then  he  said:  Fair  sweet  Father,  Jesu 
Christ,  I  wot  not  in  what  joy  I  am,  for  this  joy  passeth  all  earthly 
joys  that  ever  I  was  in.  And  so  in  this  joy  he  laid  him  down  to 
the  ship's  board,  and  slept  till  day. 

And  when  he  awoke  he  found  there  a  fair  bed,  and  therein  lying 
a  gentlewoman  dead,  the  which  was  Sir  Percivale's  sister.  And 
as  Launcelot  devised  her,  he  espied  in  her  right  hand  a  writ,  the 
which  he  read,  the  which  told  him  all  the  adventures  that  ye 
have  heard  tofore,  and  of  what  lineage  she  was  come.  So  with 
this  gentlewoman  Sir  Launcelot  was  a  month  and  more.  If  ye 
would  ask  how  he  lived,  He  that  fed  the  people  of  Israel  with 
manna  in  the  desert,  so  was  he  fed;  for  every  day  when  he  had  said 
his  prayers  he  was  sustained  with  the  grace  of  the  Holy  Ghost. 

So  on  a  night  he  went  to  play  him  by  the  water  side,  for  he  was 
somewhat  weary  of  the  ship.  And  then  he  listened  and  heard  an 
horse  come,  and  one  riding  upon  him.  And  when  he  came  nigh  he 
seemed  a  knight.  And  so  he  let  him  pass,  and  went  thereas  the 
ship  was;  and  there  he  alit,  and  took  the  saddle  and  the  bridle 
and  put  the  horse  from  him,  and  went  into  the  ship.  And  then 
Launcelot  dressed  unto  him,  and  said:  Ye  be  welcome.  And 
he  answered  and  saluted  him  again,  and  asked  him :  What  is  your 
name?  for  much  my  heart  giveth  unto  you.  Truly,  said  he,  my 
name  is  Launcelot  du  Lake.  Sir,  said  he,  then  be  ye  welcome,  for 
ye  were  the  beginning  of  me  in  this  world.  Ah,  said  he,  are  ye 
Galahad?  Yea,  forsooth,  said  he;  and  so  he  kneeled  down  and 
asked  him  his  blessing,  and  after  took  off  his  helm  and  kissed  him. 


SIR  THOMAS  MALORY  53 

And  there  was  great  joy  between  them,  for  there  is  Ho  tongue 
can  tell  the  joy  that  they  made  either  of  other,  and  many  a 
friendly  word  spoken  between,  as  kin  would,  the  which  is  no  need 
here  to  be  rehearsed.  And  there  every  each  told  other  of  their 
adventures  and  marvels  that  were  befallen  to  them  in  many 
journeys  sith  that  they  departed  from  the  court.  Anon,  as  Gala- 
had saw  the  gentlewoman  dead  in  the  bed,  he  knew  her  well 
enough,  and  told  great  worship  of  her,  that  she  was  the  best  maid 
living,  and  it  was  great  pity  of  her  death.  .  .  .  Truly, 
said  Launcelot,  never  erst  knew  I  of  so  high  adventures  done, 
and  so  marvellous  and  strange. 

So  dwelt  Launcelot  and  Galahad  within  that  ship  half  a  year, 
and  served  God  daily  and  nightly  with  all  their  power;  and  often 
they  arrived  in  isles  far  from  folk,  where  there  repaired  none  but 
wild  beasts,  and  there  they  found  many  strange  adventures  and 
perillous,  which  they  brought  to  an  end;  but  for  those  adventures 
were  with  wild  beasts,  and  not  in  the  quest  of  the  Sangreal,  there- 
fore the  tale  maketh  here  no  mention  thereof,  for  it  would  be  too 
long  to  tell  of  all  those  adventures  that  befell  them. 

HOW  A  KNIGHT  BROUGHT  UNTO  SIR  GALAHAD  A  HORSE,  AND  BAD 
HIM  COME  FROM  HIS  FATHER,  SIR  LAUNCELOT 

So  after,  on  a  Monday,  it  befell  that  they  arrived  in  the  edge  of  a 
forest  tofore  a  cross;  and  then  saw  they  a  knight  armed  all  in 
white,  and  was  richly  horsed,  and  led  in  his  right  hand  a  white 
horse;  and  so  he  came  to  the  ship,  and  saluted  the  two  knights 
on  the  High  Lord's  behalf,  and  said:  Galahad,  sir,  ye  have  been 
long  enough  with  your  father,  come  out  of  the  ship,  and  start 
upon  this  horse,  and  go  where  the  adventures  shall  lead  thee 
in  the  quest  of  the  Sangreal.  Then  he  went  to  his  father  and 
kissed  him  sweetly,  and  said:  Fair  sweet  father,  I  wot  not 
when  I  shall  see  you  more  till  I  see  the  body  of  Jesu  Christ. 
I  pray  you,  said  Launcelot,  pray  ye  to  the  High  Father  that 
He  hold  me  in  His  service.    And  so  he  took  his  horse,  and 


54  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

there  they  heard  a  voice  that  said:  Think  for  to  do  well,  for  the 
one  shall  never  see  the  other  before  the  dreadful  day  of  doom. 
Now,  son  Galahad,  said  Launcelot,  syne  we  shall  depart,  and 
never  see  other,  I  pray  to  the  High  Father  to  conserve  me 
and  you  both.  Sir,  said  Galahad,  no  prayer  availeth  so  much  as 
yours.    And  therewith  Galahad  entered  into  the  forest. 

And  the  wind  arose,  and  drove  Launcelot  more  than  a  month 
throughout  the  sea,  where  he  slept  but  little,  but  prayed  to  God 
that  he  might  see  some  tidings  of  the  Sangreal.  So  it  befell  on  a 
night,  at  midnight,  he  arrived  afore  a  castle,  on  the  back  side, 
which  was  rich  and  fair,  and  there  was  a  postern  opened  toward 
the  sea,  and  was  open  without  any  keeping,  save  two  lions  kept 
the  entry;  and  the  moon  shone  clear.  Anon  Sir  Laimcelot  heard 
a  voice  that  said:  Launcelot,  go  out  of  this  ship  and  enter  into 
the  castle,  where  thou  shalt  see  a  great  part  of  thy  desire. 

Then  he  ran  to  his  arms,  and  so  armed  him,  and  so  went  to  the 
gate  and  saw  the  lions.  Then  set  he  hand  to  his  sword  and  drew 
it.  Then  there  came  a  dwarf  suddenly,  and  smote  him  on  the 
arm  so  sore  that  the  sword  fell  out  of  his  hand.  Then  heard  he  a 
voice  say:  O  man  of  evil  faith  and  poor  belief,  wherefore  trowest 
thou  more  on  thy  harness  than  in  thy  Maker,  for  He  might  more 
avail  thee  than  thine  armour,  in  whose  service  that  thou  art  set. 
Then  said  Launcelot:  Fair  Father  Jesu  Christ,  I  thank  thee  of 
Thy  great  mercy  that  Thou  reprovest  me  of  my  misdeed;  now 
see  I  well  that  ye  hold  me  for  your  servant. 

Then  took  he  again  his  sword  and  put  it  up  in  his  sheath, 
and  made  a  cross  in  his  forehead,  and  came  to  the  lions, 
and  they  made  semblant  to  do  him  harm.  Notwithstanding 
he  passed  by  them  without  hurt,  and  entered  into  the  castle  to 
the  chief  fortress,  and  there  were  they  all  at  rest.  Then 
Launcelot  entered  in  so  armed,  for  he  found  no  gate  nor  door 
but  it  was  open.  And  at  the  last  he  found  a  chamber  whereof 
the  door  was  shut,  and  he  set  his  hand  thereto  to  have  opened 
it,  but  he  might  not. 


SIR  THOMAS  MALORY  55 

HOW  SIR  LAUNCELOT  WAS  AFORE  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  CHAMBER 
WHEREIN  THE  HOLY  SANGREAL  WAS 

Then  he  enforced  him  mickle  to  undo  the  door.  Then  he  listened 
and  heard  a  voice  which  sang  so  sweetly  that  it  seemed  none 
earthly  thing;  and  him  thought  the  voice  said:  Joy  and  honour 
be  to  the  Father  of  Heaven.  Then  Launcelot  kneeled  down 
tofore  the  chamber,  for  well  wist  he  that  there  was  the  Sangreal 
within  that  chamber.  Then  said  he:  Fair  sweet  Father,  Jesu 
Christ,  if  ever  I  did  thing  that  pleased  Thee,  Lord  for  Thy  pity 
never  have  me  not  in  despite  for  my  sins  done  aforetime,  and 
that  Thou  show  me  something  of  that  I  seek. 

And  with  that  he  saw  the  chamber  door  open,  and  there  came 
out  a  great  clereness,  that  the  house  was  as  bright  as  all  the 
torches  of  the  world  had  been  there.  So  came  he  to  the  chamber 
door,  and  would  have  entered.  And  anon  a  voice  said  to  him, 
Flee,  Launcelot,  and  enter  not,  for  thou  oughtest  not  to  do  it; 
and  if  thou  enter  thou  shalt  forethink  it.  Then  he  withdrew  him 
aback  right  heavy.  Then  lookM  he  up  in  the  middes  of  the 
chamber,  and  saw  a  table  of  silver,  and  the  holy  vessel,  covered 
with  red  samite,  and  many  angels  about  it,  whereof  one  held  a 
candle  of  wax  burning,  and  the  other  held  a  cross,  and  the  orna- 
ments of  an  altar.  And  before  the  holy  vessel  he  saw  a  good  man 
clothed  as  a  priest.  And  it  seemed  that  he  was  at  the  sacring  of 
the  mass.  And  it  seemed  to  Launcelot  that  above  the  priest's 
hands  were  three  men,  whereof  the  two  put  the  youngest  by  like- 
ness between  the  priest's  hands;  and  so  he  hft  it  up  right  high, 
and  it  seemed  to  show  so  to  the  people.  And  then  Launcelot  mar- 
velled not  a  little,  for  him  thought  the  priest  was  so  greatly  charged 
of  the  figure  that  him  seemed  that  he  should  fall  to  the  earth. 

And  when  he  saw  none  about  him  that  would  help  him,  then 
came  he  to  the  door  a  great  pace,  and  said:  Fair  Father  Jesu 
Christ,  ne  take  it  for  no  sin  though  I  help  the  good  man  which 
hath  great  need  of  help.  Right  so  entered  he  into  the  chamber, 
and  came  toward  the  table  of  silver;  and  when  he  came  nigh  he 


56  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

felt  a  breath,  that  him  thought  it  was  intermeddled  with  fire, 
which  smote  him  so  sore  in  the  visage  that  him  thought  it  brent 
his  visage;  and  therewith  he  fell  to  the  earth,  and  had  no  power 
to  arise,  as  he  that  was  so  araged,  that  had  lost  the  power  of  his 
body,  and  his  hearing,  and  his  seeing.  Then  felt  he  many  hands 
about  him,  which  took  him  up  and  bare  him  out  of  the  chamber 
door,  without  any  amending  of  his  swoon,  and  left  him  there, 
seeming  dead  to  all  people. 

So  upon  the  morrow  when  it  was  fair  day  they  within  were 
arisen,  and  found  Launcelot  lying  afore  the  chamber  door.  All 
they  marvelled  how  that  he  came  in,  and  so  they  looked  upon 
him,  and  felt  his  pulse  to  wit  whether  there  were  any  life  in  him; 
and  so  they  found  life  in  him,  but  he  might  not  stand  nor  stir  no 
member  that  he  had.  And  so  they  took  him  by  every  part  of  the 
body,  and  bare  him  into  a  chamber,  and  laid  him  in  a  rich  bed, 
far  from  all  folk;  and  so  he  lay  four  days.  Then  the  one  said  he 
was  on  live,  and  the  other  said.  Nay.  In  the  name  of  God,  said 
an  old  man,  for  I  do  you  verily  to  wit  he  is  not  dead,  but  he  is  so 
full  of  life  as  the  mightiest  of  you  all;  and  therefore  I  counsel  you 
that  he  be  well  kept  till  God  send  him  life  again. 

HOW  SIR  LAUNCELOT  HAD  LAIN  FOUR  AND  TWENTY  DAYS  AND  AS 
MANY  NIGHTS  AS  A  DEAD  MAN,  AND  OTHER  DIVERS  MATTERS 

In  such  manner  they  kept  Launcelot  four  and  twenty  days  and 
aU  so  many  nights,  that  ever  he  lay  still  as  a  dead  man;  and  at 
the  twenty-fifth  day  befell  him  after  midday  that  he  opened  his 
eyes.  And  when  he  saw  folk  he  made  great  sorrow,  and  said: 
Why  have  ye  awaked  me,  for  I  was  more  at  ease  than  I  am  now. 
O  Jesu  Christ,  who  might  be  so  blessed  that  might  see  openly  thy 
great  marvels  of  secretness  there  where  no  sinner  may  be!  What 
have  ye  seen?  said  they  about  him.  I  have  seen,  said  he,  so  great 
marvels  that  no  tongue  may  tell,  and  more  than  any  heart  can 
think,  and  had  not  my  son  been  here  afore  me  I  had  seen  much 
more.   Then  they  told  him  how  he  had  lain  there  four  and  twenty 


I 


SIR  THOMAS  MALORY  57 

days  and  nights.  Then  him  thought  it  was  punishment  for  the 
four  and  twenty  years  that  he  had  been  a  sinner,  wherefore 
Our  Lord  put  him  in  penance  four  and  twenty  days  and  nights.. 

Then  looked  Sir  Launcelot  afore  him,  and  saw  the  hair  which 
he  had  borne  nigh  a  year,  for  that  he  forethought  him  right  much 
that  he  had  broken  his  promise  unto  the  hermit,  which  he  had 
avowed  to  do.  Then  they  asked  how  it  stood  with  him.  For- 
sooth, said  he,  I  am  whole  of  body,  thanked  be  Our  Lord;  there- 
fore, sirs,  for  God's  love  tell  me  where  I  am.  Then  said  they  all 
that  he  was  in  the  castle  of  Carbonek.  Therewith  came  a  gentle- 
woman and  brought  him  a  shirt  of  small  linen  cloth,  but  he 
changed  not  there,  but  took  the  hair  to  him  again.  Sir,  said  they, 
the  quest  of  the  Sangreal  is  achieved  now  right  in  you,  that  never 
shall  ye  see  of  the  Sangreal  no  more  than  ye  have  seen.  Now  I 
thank  God,  said  Launcelot,  of  His  great  mercy  of  that  I  have 
seen,  for  it  sufficeth  me;  for  as  I  suppose  no  man  in  this  world 
hath  lived  better  than  I  have  done  to  achieve  that  I  have  done. 
And  therewith  he  took  the  hair  and  clothed  him  in  it,  and  above 
that  he  put  a  linen  shirt,  and  after  a  robe  of  scarlet,  fresh  and 
new.  And  when  he  was  so  arrayed  they  marvelled  all,  for  they 
knew  him  that  he  was  Launcelot,  the  good  knight.  And  then 
they  said  all:  O  my  lord  Sir  Latmcelot,  be  that  ye?  And  he  said: 
Truly  I  am  he. 

Then  came  word  to  King  Pelles  that  the  knight  that  had  lain 
so  long  dead  was  Sir  Launcelot.  Then  was  the  king  right  glad, 
and  went  to  see  him.  And  when  Launcelot  saw  him  come  he 
dressed  him  against  him,  and  there  made  the  king  great  joy  of 
him.  And  there  the  king  told  him  tidings  that  his  fair  daughter 
was  dead.  Then  Launcelot  was  right  heavy  of  it,  and  said:  Sir, 
me  f orthinketh  the  death  of  your  daughter,  for  she  was  a  full  fair 
lady,  fresh  and  young.  And  well  I  wot  she  bare  the  best  knight 
that  is  now  on  the  earth,  or  that  ever  was  sith  God  was  born.  So 
the  king  held  him  there  four  days,  and  on  the  morrow  he  took 
his  leave  at  King  Pelles  and  at  all  the  fellowship,  and  thanked 
them  of  their  great  labour. 


58  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

Right  so  as  they  sat  at  their  dinner  in  the  chief  hall,  then  was 
it  so  that  the  Sangreal  had  fulfilled  the  table  with  all  manner  of 
meats  that  any  heart  might  think.  So  as  they  sat  they  saw  all 
the  doors  and  the  windows  of  the  place  were  shut  without  man's 
hand,  whereof  they  were  all  abashed,  and  none  wist  what  to  do. 
And  then  it  happened  suddenly  that  a  knight  came  to  the  chief 
door  and  knocked,  and  cried:  Undo  the  door.  But  they  would 
not.  And  ever  he  cried:  Undo;  but  they  would  not.  And  at 
last  it  annoyed  him  so  much  that  the  king  himself  arose  and 
came  to  a  window  where  the  knight  called.  Then  he  said:  Sir 
knight,  ye  shall  not  enter  at  this  time  while  the  Sangreal  is  here, 
and  therefore  go  into  another;  for  certes  ye  be  none  of  the  knights 
of  the  quest,  but  one  of  them  which  hath  served  the  fiend,  and 
hast  left  the  service  of  Our  Lord:  and  he  was  passing  wroth  at 
the  king's  words.  Sir  knight,  said  the  king,  sith  ye  would  so  fain 
enter,  say  me  of  what  country  ye  be.  Sir,  said  he,  I  am  of  the 
realm  of  Logris,  and  my  name  is  Ector  de  Maris,  and  brother 
unto  my  lord,  Sir  Launcelot.  In  the  name  of  God,  said  the  king, 
me  forthinketh  of  what  I  have  said,  for  your  brother  is  here 
within.  And  when  Ector  de  Maris  understood  that  his  brother 
was  there,  for  he  was  the  man  in  the  world  that  he  most  dread  and 
loved,  and  then  he  said:  Ah  God,  now  doubleth  my  sorrow  and 
shame.  Full  truly  said  the  good  man  of  the  hill  unto  Gawaine 
and  to  me  of  our  dreams.  Then  went  he  out  of  the  court  as  fast 
as  his  horse  might,  and  so  throughout  the  castle. 

HOW  SIR  LAUNCELOT  RETURNED  TOWARDS  LOGRIS,  AND  OF  OTHER 
ADVENTURES  WHICH  HE  SAW  IN  THE  WAY 

Then  King  Pelles  came  to  Sir  Launcelot  and  told  him  tidings  of 
his  brother,  whereof  he  was  sorry,  that  he  wist  not  what  to  do. 
So  Sir  Launcelot  departed,  and  took  his  arms,  and  said  he  would 
go  see  the  realm  of  Logris,  which  I  have  not  seen  these  twelve 
months.  And  therewith  he  commended  the  king  to  God,  and 
so  rode  through  many  realms.    And  at  the  last  he  came  to  a 


SIR  THOMAS  MALORY 


59 


white  abbey,  ^nd  there  they  made  him  that  night  great  cheer; 
and  on  the  morn  he  rose  and  heard  mass.  And  afore  an  altar  he 
found  a  rich  tomb,  the  which  was  newly  made;  and  then  he  took 
heed,  and  saw  the  sides  written  with  gold  which  said:  Here  Heth 
King  Bagdemagus  of  Gore,  which  King  Arthur's  nephew  slew; 
and  named  him.  Sir  Gawaine.  Then  was  he  not  a  httle  sorry, 
for  Launcelot  loved  him  much  more  than  any  other,  and  had 
it  been  any  other  than  Gawaine  he  should  not  have  escaped 
from  death  to  life;  and  said  to  himself:  Ah  Lord  God,  this  is  a 
great  hurt  unto  King  Arthur's  court,  the  loss  of  such  a  man. 
And  then  he  departed  and  came  to  the  abbey  where  Galahad  did 
the  adventure  of  the  tombs,  and  won  the  white  shield  with 
the  red  cross;  and  there  had  he  great  cheer  all  that  night.  And 
on  the  morn  he  turned  unto  Camelot,  where  he  found  King 
Arthur  and  the  queen. 

'But  many  of  the  knights  of  the  Round  Table  were  slain  and 
destroyed,  more  than  half.  And  so  three  were  come  home  again, 
that  were  Sir  Gawaine,  Sir  Ector,  and  Sir  Lionel,  and  many 
other  that  need  not  to  be  rehearsed.  Then  all  the  court  was  pass- 
ing glad  of  Sir  Launcelot,  and  the  king  asked  him  many  tidings 
of  his  son  Galahad.  And  there  Launcelot  told  the  king  of  his 
adventures  that  had  befallen  him  syne  he  departed.  And  also  he 
told  him  of  the  adventures  of  Galahad,  Percivale,  and  Bors, 
which  that  he  knew  by  the  letter  of  the  dead  damosel,  and  as 
Galahad  had  told  him.  Now  God  would,  said  the  king,  that  they 
were  all  three  here.  That  shall  never  be,  said  Launcelot,  for  two 
of  them  shall  ye  never  see,  but  one  of  them  shall  come  again. 


PART  II 

HISTORY 


HERODOTUS 

About  484-424  B.  C. 

THERMOPYLAE  1 

[Adapted  from  the  History,  Book  VII  (entitled  Polymnia),  chaps. 
201-228.  The  text  is  taken,  with  slight  rearrangements,  from  the 
translation  by  George  Rawlinson  (1812-1902),  first  published  in  1858. 
The  action  here  recounted  is  of  the  third  Persian  expedition  against 
Greece,  that  under  Xerxes  (about  480  B.C.),  and  falls  between  the 
battles  of  Marathon  and  of  Salamis.] 

King  Xerxes  pitched  his  camp  in  the  region  of  Malis  called 
Trachinia,  while  on  their  side  the  Greeks  occupied  the  straits. 
These  straits  the  Greeks  in  general  call  Thermopylae  (the  Hot 
Gates) ;  but  the  natives,  and  those  who  dwell  in  the  neighbour- 
hood, call  them  Pylae  (the  Gates).  Here  then  the  two  armies 
took  their  stand;  the  one  master  of  all  the  region  lying  north  of 
Trachis,  the  other  of  the  country  extending  southward  of  that 
place  to  the  verge  of  the  continent. 

The  Greeks  who  at  this  spot  awaited  the  coming  of  Xerxes 
were  the  following: — From  Sparta,  three  hundred  men-at-arms: 
from  Arcadia,  a  thousand  Tegeans  and  Mantineans,  five  hundred 
of  each  people;  a  hundred  and  twenty  Orchomenians,  from  the 
Arcadian  Orchomenus;  and  a  thousand  from  other  cities:  from 
Corinth,  four  hundred  men:  from  Phlius,  two  hundred:  and 
from  Mycenae  eighty.  Such  was  the  number  from  the  Pelopon- 
nese.  There  were  also  present,  from  Boeotia,  seven  hundred 
Thespians  and  four  hundred  Thebans. 

Besides  these  troops,  the  Locrians  of  Opus  and  the  Phocians 
had  obeyed  the  call  of  their  countrymen,  and  sent,  the  former  all 

^  Reprinted  by  kind  permission  of  Messrs.  J.  M.  Dent  and  Sons,  London. 

63 


64  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

the  force  they  had,  the  latter  a  thousand  men.  For  envoys  had 
gone  from  the  Greeks  at  Thermopylae  among  the  Locrians  and 
Phocians,  to  call  on  them  for  assistance,  and  to  say — "They  were 
themselves  but  the  vanguard  of  the  host,  sent  to  precede  the 
main  body,  which  might  every  day  be  expected  to  follow  them. 
The  sea  was  in  good  keeping,  watched  by  the  Athenians,  the 
Eginetans,  and  the  rest  of  the  fleet.  There  was  no  cause  why 
they  should  fear;  for  after  all  the  invader  was  not  a  god  but  a 
man;  and  there  never  had  been,  and  never  would  be,  a  man  who 
was  not  liable  to  misfortimes  from  the  very  day  of  his  birth,  and 
those  misfortunes  greater  in  proportion  to  his  own  greatness. 
The  assailant  therefore,  being  only  a  mortal,  must  needs  fall  from 
his  glory."  Thus  urged,  the  Locrians  and  the  Phocians  had  come 
with  their  troops  to  Trachis. 

The  various  nations  had  each  captains  of  their  own  under 
whom  they  served;  but  the  one  to  whom  all  especially  looked  up, 
and  who  had  the  command  of  the  entire  force,  was  the  Lacedaemo- 
nian, Leonidas.  Now  Leonidas  was  the  son  of  Anaxandridas, 
who  was  the  son  of  Leo,  who  was  the  son  of  Eurycratidas,  who 
was  the  son  of  Anaxander,  who  was  the  son  of  Eurycrates, 
who  was  the  son  of  Polydorus,  who  was  the  son  of  Alcamenes, 
who  was  the  son  of  Telecles,  who  was  the  son  of  Archelaiis,  who 
was  the  son  of  Agesilaiis,  who  was  the  son  of  Doryssus,  who  was 
the  son  of  Labotas,  who  was  the  son  of  Echestratus,  who  was  the  son 
of  Agis,  who  was  the  son  of  Eurysthenes,  who  was  the  son  of  Aristo- 
demus,  who  was  the  son  of  Aristomachus,  who  was  the  son  of  Cle- 
odaeus,  who  was  the  son  of  Hyllus,  who  was  the  son  of  Hercules. 

Leonidas  had  come  to  be  king  of  Sparta  quite  unexpectedly. 
Having  two  elder  brothers,  Cleomenes  and  Dorieus,  he  had  no 
thought  of  ever  mounting  the  throne.  However,  when  Cleo- 
menes died  without  male  offspring,  as  Dorieus  was  likewise  de- 
ceased, having  perished  in  Sicily,  the  crown  fell  to  Leonidas,  who 
was  older  than  Cleombrotus,  the  youngest  of  the  sons  of  Anaxan- 
dridas, and,  moreover,  was  married  to  the  daughter  of  Cleomenes. 


HERODOTUS  65 

He  had  now  come  to  Thermopylae,  accompanied  by  the  three 
hundred  men  which  the  law  assigned  him,  whom  he  had  himself 
chosen  from  among  the  citizens,  and  who  were  all  of  them  fathers 
with  sons  living.  On  his  way  he  had  taken  the  troops  from 
Thebes,  whose  number  I  have  already  mentioned,  and  who  were 
under  the  command  of  Leontiades  the  son  of  Eurymachus.  The 
reason  why  he  made  a  point  of  taking  troops  from  Thebes,  and 
Thebes  only,  was,  that  the  Thebans  were  strongly  suspected  of 
being  well  inclined  to  the  Medes.  Leonidas  therefore  called  on 
them  to  come  with  him  to  the  war,  wishing  to  see  whether  they 
would  comply  with  his  demand,  or  openly  refuse,  and  disclaim 
the  Greek  alliance.  They,  however,  though  their  wishes  leant 
the  other  way,  nevertheless  sent  the  men. 

The  force  with  Leonidas  was  sent  forward  by  the  Spartans  in 
advance  of  their  main  body,  that  the  sight  of  them  might  en- 
courage the  allies  to  fight,  and  hinder  them  from  going  over  to 
the  Medes,  as  it  was  likely  they  might  have  done  had  they  seen 
that  Sparta  was  backward.  They  intended  presently,  when 
they  had  celebrated  the  Carneian  festival,^  which  was  what  now 
kept  them  at  home,  to  leave  a  garrison  in  Sparta,  and  hasten  in 
full  force  to  join  the  army.  The  rest  of  the  allies  also  intended 
to  act  similarly;  for  it  happened  that  the  Olympic  festival 
fell  exactly  at  this  same  period.^  None  of  them  looked  to  see 
the  contest  at  Thermopylae  decided  so  speedily;  wherefore  they 
were  content  to  send  forward  a  mere  advanced  guard.  Such 
accordingly  were  the  intentions  of  the  allies. 

The  Greek  forces  at  Thermopylae,  when  the  Persian  army 
drew  near  to  the  entrance  of  the  pass,  were  seized  with  fear; 
and  a  council  was  held  to  consider  about  a  retreat.  It  was  the 
wish  of  the  Peloponnesians  generally  that  the  army  should  fall 
back  upon  the  Peloponnese,  and  there  guard  the  Isthmus.  But 
Leonidas,  who  saw  with  what  indignation  the  Phocians  and 
Locrians  heard  of  this  plan,  gave  his  voice  for  remaining  where 

^  About  our  August.  ^  j^  ^i^e  latter  end  of  June,  or  in  July. 

S 


66  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

they  were,  while  they  sent  envoys  to  the  several  cities  to  ask  for 
help,  since  they  were  too  few  to  make  a  stand  against  an  army 
like  that  of  the  Medes. 

While  this  debate  was  going  on,  Xerxes  sent  a  mounted  spy  to 
observe  the  Greeks,  and»note  how  many  they  were,  and  see  what 
they  were  doing.  He  had  heard,  before  he  came  out  of  Thessaly, 
that  a  few  men  were  assembled  at  this  place,  and  that  at  their 
head  were  certain  Lacedaemonians,  under  Leonidas,  a  descendant 
of  Hercules.  The  horseman  rode  up  to  the  camp,  and  looked 
about  him,  but  did  not  see  the  whole  army;  for  such  as  were  on 
the  further  side  of  the  wall  (which  had  been  rebuilt  and  was  now 
carefully  guarded)  it  was  not  possible  for  him  to  behold;  but  he 
observed  those  on  the  outside,  who  were  encamped  in  front  of 
the  rampart.  It  chanced  that  at  this  time  the  Lacedaemonians 
held  the  outer  guard,  and  were  seen  by  the  spy,  some  of  them 
engaged  in  gymnastic  exercises,  others  combing  their  long  hair. 
At  this  the  spy  greatly  marvelled,  but  he  counted  their  number, 
and  when  he  had  taken  accurate  note  of  everything,  he  rode  back 
quietly;  for  no  one  pursued  after  him,  nor  paid  any  heed  to  his 
visit.    So  he  returned,  and  told  Xerxes  all  that  he  had  seen. 

Upon  this,  Xerxes,  who  had  no  means  of  surmising  the  truth — 
namely,  that  the  Spartans  were  preparing  to  do  or  die  manfully 
— but  thought  it  laughable  that  they  should  be  engaged  in  such 
employments,  sent  and  called  to  his  presence  Demaratus  the  son 
of  Ariston,  who  still  remained  with  the  army.  When  he  ap- 
peared, Xerxes  told  him  all  that  he  had  heard,  and  questioned 
him  concerning  the  news,  since  he  was  anxious  to  understand  the 
meaning  of  such  behaviour  on  the  part  of  the  Spartans.  Then 
Demaratus  said — 

"I  spake  to  thee,  O  king!  concerning  these  men  long  since, 
when  we  had  but  just  begun  our  march  upon  Greece;  thou,  how- 
ever, didst  only  laugh  at  my  words,  when  I  told  thee  of  all  this, 
which  I  saw  would  come  to  pass.  Earnestly  do  I  struggle  at  all 
times  to  speak  truth  to  thee,  sire;  and  now  listen  to  it  once  more. 


HERODOTUS  67 

These  men  have  come  to  dispute  the  pass  with  us;  and  it  is  for 
this  that  they  are  now  making  ready.  'T  is  their  custom,  when 
they  are  about  to  hazard  their  Hves,  to  adorn  their  heads  with 
care.  Be  assured,  however,  that  if  thou  canst  subdue  the  men 
who  are  here  and  the  Lacedaemonians  who  remain  in  Sparta, 
there  is  no  other  nation  in  all  the  world  which  will  venture  to  lift 
a  hand  in  their  defence.  Thou  hast  now  to  deal  with  the  first 
kingdom  and  town  in  Greece,  and  with  the  bravest  men." 

Then  Xerxes,  to  whom  what  Demaratus  said  seemed  alto- 
gether to  surpass  belief,  asked  further,  "how  it  was  possible  for 
so  small  an  army  to  contend  with  his?  " 

"0  king!"  Demaratus  answered,  "let  me  be  treated  as  a  liar, 
if  matters  fall  not  out  as  I  say." 

But  Xerxes  was  not  persuaded  any  the  more.  Four  whole  days 
he  suffered  to  go  by,  expecting  that  the  Greeks  would  run  away. 
When,  however,  he  found  on  the  fifth  that  they  were  not  gone, 
thinking  that  their  firm  stand  was  mere  impudence  and  reckless- 
ness, he  grew  wroth,  and  sent  against  them  the  Medes  and  Cis- 
sians,  with  orders  to  take  them  ahve  and  bring  them  into  his 
presence.  Then  the  Medes  rushed  forward  and  charged  the 
Greeks,  but  fell  in  vast  numbers:  others  however  took  the  places 
of  the  slain,  and  would  not  be  beaten  off,  though  they  suffered 
terrible  losses.  In  this  way  it  became  clear  to  all,  and  especially 
to  the  king,  that  though  he  had  plenty  of  combatants,  he  had  but 
very  few  warriors.  The  struggle,  however,  continued  during  the 
whole  day. 

Then  the  Medes,  having  met  so  rough  a  reception,  withdrew 
from  the  fight;  and  their  place  was  taken  by  the  band  of  Persians 
under  Hydarnes,  whom  the  king  called  his  "Immortals":  they, 
it  was  thought,  would  soon  finish  the  business.  But  when  they 
joined  battle  with  the  Greeks,  't  was  with  no  better  success  than 
the  Median  detachment — things  went  much  as  before — the  two 
armies  fighting  in  a  narrow  space,  and  the  barbarians  using 
shorter  spears  than  the  Greeks,  and  having  no  advantage  from 


68  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

their  numbers.  The  Lacedaemonians  fought  in  a  way  worthy  of 
note,  and  showed  themselves  far  more  skilful  in  fight  than  their 
adversaries,  often  turning  their  backs,  and  making  as  though 
they  were  all  flying  away,  on  which  the  barbarians  would  rush 
after  them  with  much  noise  and  shouting,  when  the  Spartans  at 
their  approach  would  wheel  round  and  face  their  pursuers,  in  this 
way  destroying  vast  numbers  of  the  enemy.  Some  Spartans 
likewise  fell  in  these  encounters,  but  only  a  very  few.  At  last 
the  Persians,  finding  that  all  their  efforts  to  gain  the  pass 
availed  nothing,  and  that,  whether  they  attacked  by  divisions 
or  in  any  other  way,  it  was  to  no  purpose,  withdrew  to  their 
own  quarters. 

During  these  assaults,  it  is  said  that  Xerxes,  who  was  watching 
the  battle,  thrice  leaped  from  the  throne  on  which  he  sate,  in 
terror  for  his  army. 

Next  day  the  combat  was  renewed,  but  with  no  better  success 
on  the  part  of  the  barbarians.  The  Greeks  were  so  few  that  the 
barbarians  hoped  to  find  them  disabled,  by  reason  of  their 
wounds,  from  offering  any  further  resistance;  and  so  they  once 
more  attacked  them.  But  the  Greeks  were  drawn  up  in  detach- 
ments according  to  their  cities,  and  bore  the  brunt  of  the  battle 
in  turns, — all  except  the  Phocians,  who  had  been  stationed  on 
the  mountain  to  guard  the  pathway.  So,  when  the  Persians 
found  no  difference  between  that  day  and  the  preceding,  they 
again  retired  to  their  quarters. 

•  Now,  as  the  king  was  in  a  great  strait,  and  knew  not  how  he 
should  deal  with  the  emergency,  Ephialtes,  the  son  of  Euryde- 
mus,  a  man  of  Mahs,  came  to  him  and  was  admitted  to  a  confer- 
ence. Stirred  by  the  hope  of  receiving  a  rich  reward  at  the  king's 
hands,  he  had  come  to  tell  him  of  the  pathway  which  led  across 
the  mountain  to  Thermopylae;  by  which  disclosure  he  brought 
destruction  on  the  band  of  Greeks  who  had  there  withstood 
the  barbarians.  This  Ephialtes  afterwards,  from  fear  of  the 
Lacedaemonians,  fled  into  Thessaly;  and  during  his  exile,  in  an 


HERODOTUS  69 

assembly  of  the  Amphictyons  held  at  Pylae,  a  price  was  set  upon 
his  head  by  the  Pylagorae.  When  some  time  had  gone  by,  he 
returned  from  exile,  and  went  to  Anticyra,  where  he  was  slain 
by  Athenades,  a  native  of  Trachis.  Athenades  did  not  slay  him 
for  his  treachery,  but  for  another  reason,  which  I  shall  mention 
in  a  later  part  of  my  history:  yet  still  the  Lacedaemonians  hon- 
oured him  none  the  less.  Thus  then  did  Ephialtes  perish  a  long 
time  afterwards. 

Besides  this  there  is  another  story  told,  which  I  do  not  at  all 
believe — to  wit,  that  Onetas  the  son  of  Phanagoras,  a  native  of 
Carystus,  and  Corydallus,  a  man  of  Anticyra,  were  the  persons 
who  spoke  on  this  matter  to  the  king,  and  took  the  Persians 
across  the  mountain.  One  may  guess  which  story  is  true,  from 
the  fact  that  the  deputies  of  the  Greeks,  the  Pylagorae,  who  must 
have  had  the  best  means  of  ascertaining  the  truth,  did  not  offer 
the  reward  for  the  heads  of  Onetas  and  Corydallus,  but  for  that 
of  Ephialtes  of  Trachis;  and  again  from  the  flight  of  Ephialtes, 
which  we  know  to  have  been  on  this  account.  Onetas,  I  allow, 
although  he  was  not  a  Malian,  might  have  been  acquainted  with 
the  path,  if  he  had  lived  much  in  that  part  of  the  country;  but 
as  Ephialtes  was  the  person  who  actually  led  the  Persians  round 
the  mountain  by  the  pathway,  I  leave  his  name  on  record  as  that 
of  the  man  who  did  the  deed. 

Great  was  the  joy  of  Xerxes  on  this  occasion;  and  as  he  ap- 
proved highly  of  the  enterprise  which  Ephialtes  undertook  to 
accomplish,  he  forthwith  sent  upon  the  errand  Hydarnes,  and 
the  Persians  under  him.  The  troops  left  the  camp  about  the  time 
of  the  lighting  of  the  lamps.  The  pathway  along  which  they 
went  was  first  discovered  by  the  Malians  of  these  parts,  who  soon 
afterwards  led  the  Thessalians  by  it  to  attack  the  Phocians, 
at  the  time  when  the  Phocians  fortified  the  pass  with  a  wall, 
and  so  put  themselves  under  covert  from  danger.  And  ever 
since,  the  path  has  always  been  put  to  an  ill  use  by  the 
Malians. 


70     *  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

The  course  which  it  takes  is  the  following: — Beginning  at  the 
Asopus,  where  that  stream  flows  through  the  cleft  in  the  hills, 
it  runs  along  the  ridge  of  the  mountain  (which  is  called,  like  the 
pathway  over  it,  Anopaea),  and  ends  at  the  city  of  Alpenus — 
the  first  Locrian  town  as  you  come  from  Mahs — by  the  stone 
called  Melampygus  and  the  seats  of  the  Cercopians.  Here  it  is 
as  narrow  as  at  any  other  point.  The  Persians  took  this  path, 
and,  crossing  the  Asopus,  continued  their  march  through  the 
whole  of  the  night,  having  the  mountains  of  (Eta  on  their  right 
.hand,  and  on  their  left  those  of  Trachis.  At  dawn  of  day  they 
found  themselves  close  to  the  summit. 

Now  the  hill  was  guarded,  as  I  have  already  said,  by  a  thou- 
sand Phocian  men-at-arms,  who  were  placed  there  to  defend  the 
pathway,  and  at  the  same  time  to  secure  their  own  country. 
They  had  been  given  the  guard  of  the  mountain  path,  while  the 
other  Greeks  defended  the  pass  below,  because  they  had  volun- 
teered for  the  service,  and  had  pledged  themselves  to  Leonidas 
to  maintain  the  post.  The  ascent  of  the  Persians  became  known 
to  the  Phocians  in  the  following  manner: — During  all  the  time 
that  they  were  making  their  way  up,  the  Greeks  remained  un- 
conscious of  it,  inaismuch  as  the  whole  mountain  was  covered 
with  groves  of  oak;  but  it  happened  that  the  air  was  very  still, 
and  the  leaves  which  the  Persians  stirred  with  their  feet  made, 
as  it  was  likely  they  would,  a  loud  rustling,  whereupon  the 
Phocians  jumped  up  and  flew  to  seize  their  arms. 

In  a  moment  the  barbarians  came  in  sight,  and,  perceiving  men 
arming  themselves,  were  greatly  amazed;  for  they  had  fallen  in 
with  an  enemy  when  they  expected  no  opposition.  Hydarnes, 
alarmed  at  the  sight,  and  fearing  lest  the  Phocians  might  be 
Lacedaemonians,  inquired  of  Ephialtes  to  what  nation  these 
troops  belonged.  Ephialtes  told  him  the  exact  truth,  whereupon 
he  arrayed  his  Persians  for  battle.  The  Phocians,  galled  by  the 
showers  of  arrows  to  which  they  were  exposed,  and  imagining 
themselves  the  special  object  of  the  Persian  attack,  fled  hastily 


HERODOTUS  71 

to  the  crest  of  the  mountain,  and  there  made  ready  to  meet 
death;  but  while  their  mistake  continued,  the  Persians,  with 
Ephialtes  and  Hydarnes,  not  thinking  it  worth  their  while  to 
delay  on  account  of  Phocians,  passed  on  and  descended  the 
mountain  with  all  possible  speed. 

The  Greeks  at  Thermopylae  received  the  first  warning  of  the 
destruction  which  the  dawn  would  bring  on  them  from  the  seer 
Megistias,  who  read  their  fate  in  the  victims  as  he  was  sacrificing. 
After  this  deserters  came  in,  and  brought  the  news  that  the 
Persians  were  marching  round  by  the  hills:  it  was  still  night 
when  these  men  arrived.  Last  of  all,  the  scouts  came  running 
down  from  the  heights,  and  brought  in  the  same  accounts,  when 
the  day  was  just  beginning  to  break.  Then  the  Greeks  held  a 
council  to  consider  what  they  should  do,  and  here  opinions  were 
divided:  some  were  strong  against  quitting  their  post,  while 
others  contended  to  the  contrary.  So  when  the  council  had 
broken  up,  part  of  the  troops  departed  and  went  their  ways 
homeward  to  their  several  states;  part  however  resolved  to  re- 
main, and  to  stand  by  Leonidas  to  the  last. 

It  is  said  that  Leonidas  hiriiself  sent  away  the  troops  who  de- 
parted, because  he  tendered  their  safety,  but  thought  it  unseemly 
that  either  he  or  his  Spartans  should  quit  the  post  which  they 
had  been  especially  sent  to  guard.  For  my  own  part,  I  incline 
to  think  that  Leonidas  gave  the  order,  because  he  perceived  the 
aUies  to  be  out  of  heart  and  unwilling  to  encounter  the  danger  to 
which  his  own  mind  was  made  up.  He  therefore  commanded 
them  to  retreat,  but  said  that  he  himself  could  not  draw  back 
with  honour;  knowing  that,  if  he  stayed,  glory  awaited  him,  and 
that  Sparta  in  that  case  would  not  lose  her  prosperity.  For  when 
the  Spartans,  at  the  very  beginning  of  the  war,  sent  to  consult  the 
oracle  concerning  it,  the  answer  which  they  received  from 
the  Pythoness  was,  ''that  either  Sparta  must  be  overthrown 
by  the  barbarians,  or  one  of  her  kings  must  perish."  The 
prophecy  was  delivered  in  hexameter  verse,  and  ran  thus: — 


72  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

O  ye  men  who  dwell  in  the  streets  of  broad  Lacedaemon! 

Either  your  glorious  town  shall  be  sacked  by  the  children  of  Perseus, 

Or,  in  exchange,  must  all  through  the  whole  Laconian  country 

Mourn  for  the  loss  of  a  king,  descendant  of  great  Heracles. 

He  cannot  be  withstood  by  the  courage  of  bulls  nor  of  lions. 

Strive  as  they  may;  heismighty  as  Jove;  there  is  nought  that  shall 

stay  him. 
Till  he  have  got  for  his  prey  your  king,  or  your  glorious  city. 

The  remembrance  of  this  answer,  I  think,  and  the  wish  to  secure 
the  whole  glory  for  the  Spartans,  caused  Leonidas  to  send  the 
allies  away.  This  is  more  likely  than  that  they  quarrelled  with 
him,  and  took  their  departure  in  such  unruly  fashion. 

To  me  it  seems  no  small  argument  in  favour  of  this  view,  that 
the  seer  also  who  accompanied  the  army,  Megistias,  the  Acarna- 
nian, — said  to  have  been  of  the  blood  of  Melampus,^  and  the  same 
who  was  led  by  the  appearance  of  the  victims  to  warn  the  Greeks 
of  the  danger  which  threatened  them, — received  orders  to  retire 
(as  it  is  certain  he  did)  from  Leonidas,  that  he  might  escape  the 
coming  destruction.  Megistias,  however,  though  bidden  to  de- 
part, refused,  and  stayed  with  the, army;  but  he  had  an  only  son 
present  with  the  expedition,  whom  he  now  sent  away. 

So  the  allies,  when  Leonidas  ordered  them  to  retire,  obeyed 
him  and  forthwith  departed.  Only  the  Thespians  and  the  The- 
bans  remained  with  the  Spartans;  and  of  these  the  Thebans  were 
kept  back  by  Leonidas  as  hostages,  very  much  against  their  will. 
The  Thespians,  on  the  contrary,  stayed  entirely  of  their  own 
accord,  refusing  to  retreat,  and  declaring  that  they  would  not 
forsake  Leonidas  and  his  followers.  So  they  abode  with  the 
Spartans,  and  died  with  them.  Their  leader  was  Demophilus, 
the  son  of  Diadromes. 

At  sunrise  Xerxes  made  libations,  after  which  he  waited  until 
the  time  when  the  forum  is  wont  to  fill,  and  then  began  his  ad- 
vance.   Ephialtes  had  instructed  him  thus,  as  the  descent  of  the 

*  In  the  generation  before  the  Trojan  War. 


HERODOTUS  73 

mountain  is  much  quicker,  and  the  distance  much  shorter,  than 
the  way  round  the  hills,  and  the  ascent.  So  the  barbarians  under 
Xerxes  began  to  draw  nigh;  and  the  Greeks  under  Leonidas,  as 
they  now  went  forth  determined  to  die,  advanced  much  further 
than  on  previous  days,  until  they  reached  the  more  open  portion 
of  the  pass.  Hitherto  they  had  held  their  station  within  the  wall, 
and  from  this  had  gone  forth  to  fight  at  the  point  where  the  pass 
was  the  narrowest.  Now  they  joined  battle  beyond  the  defile, 
and  carried  slaughter  among  the  barbarians,  who  fell  in  heaps. 
Behind  them  the  captains  of  the  squadrons,  armed  with  whips, 
urged  their  men  forward  with  continual  blows.  Many  were 
thrust  into  the  sea,  and  there  perished;  a  still  greater  number 
were  trampled  to  death  by  their  own  soldiers;  no  one  heeded  the 
dying.  For  the  Greeks,  reckless  of  their  own  safety  and  desper- 
ate, since  they  knew  that,  as  the  mountain  had  been  crossed, 
their  destruction  was  nigh  at  hand,  exerted  themselves  with  the 
most  furious  valour  against  the  barbarians. 

By  this  time  the  spears  of  the  greater  number  were  all  shivered, 
and  with  their  swords  they  hewed  down  the  ranks  of  the  Per- 
sians; and  here,  as  they  strove,  Leonidas  fell  fighting  bravely, 
together  with  many  other  famous  Spartans,  whose  names  I  have 
taken  care  to  learn  on  account  of  their  great  worthiness,  as  indeed 
I  have  those  of  all  the  three  hundred.  There  fell  too  at  the  same 
time  very  many  famous  Persians:  among  them,  two  ^ons  of 
Darius,  Abrocomes  and  Hyperanthes,  his  children  by  Phrata- 
gune,  the  daughter  of  Artanes.  Artanes  was  brother  of  King 
Darius,  being  a  son  of  Hystaspes,  the  son  of  Arsames;  and  when 
he  gave  his  daughter  to  the  king,  he  made  him  heir  Ukewise  of  all 
his  substance;  for  she  was  his  only  child. 

Thus  two  brothers  of  Xerxes  here  fought  and  fell.  And  now 
there  arose  a  fierce  struggle  between  the  Persians  and  the  Lace- 
daemonians over  the  body  of  Leonidas,  in  which  the  Greeks  four 
times  drove  back  the  enemy,  and  at  last  by  their  great  bravery 
succeeded  in  bearing  off  the  body.    This  combat  was  scarcely 


74  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

ended  when  the  Persians  with  Ephialtes  approached;  and  the 
Greeks,  informed  that  they  drew  nigh,  made  a  change  in  the 
manner  of  their  fighting.  Drawing  back  into  the  narrowest  part 
of  the  pass,  and  retreating  even  behind  the  cross  wall,  they  posted 
themselves  upon  a  hillock,  where  they  stood  all  drawn  up  to- 
gether in  one  close  body,  except  only  the  Thebans.  The  hillock 
whereof  I  speak  is  at  the  entrance  of  the  straits,  where  the  stone 
lion  stands  which  was  set  up  in  honour  of  Leonidas.  Here  they 
defended  themselves  to  the  last,  such  as  still  had  swords  using 
them,  and  the  others  resisting  with  their  hands  and  teeth;  till 
the  barbarians,  who  in  part  had  pulled  down  the  wall  and  at- 
tacked them  in  front,  in  part  had  gone  round  and  now  encircled 
them  upon  every  side,  overwhelmed  and  buried  the  remnant 
which  was  left  beneath  showers  of  missile  weapons. 

Thus  nobly  did  the  whole  body  of  Lacedaemonians  and  Thes- 
pians behave;  but  nevertheless  one  man  is  said  to  have  distin- 
guished himself  above  all  the  rest,  to  wit,  Dieneces  the  Spartan. 
A  speech  which  he  made  before  the  Greeks  engaged  the  Medes, 
remains  on  record.  One  of  the  Trachinians  told  him,  "  Such  was 
the  number  of  the  barbarians,  that  when  they  shot  forth  their 
arrows  the  sun  would  be  darkened  by  their  multitude."  Dien- 
eces, not  at  all  frightened  at  these  words,  but  making  light  of 
the  Median  numbers,  answered,  "Our  Trachinian  friend  brings 
us  excellent  tidings.  If  the  Medes  darken  the  sun,  we  shall  have 
our  fight  in  the  shade."  Other  sayings  too  of  a  like  nature  are 
reported  to  have  been  left  on  record  by  this  same  person. 

Next  to  him  two  brothers,  Lacedaenionians,  are  reputed  to 
have  made  themselves  conspicuous:  they  were  named  Alpheus 
and  Maro,  and  were  the  sons  of  Orsiphantus.  There  was  also  a 
Thespian  who  gained  greater  glory  than  any  of  his  countrymen: 
he  was  a  man  called  Dithyrambus,  the  son  of  Harmatidas. 

The  slain  were  buried  where  they  fell;  and  in  their  honour, 
nor  less  in  honour  of  those  who  died  before  Leonidas  sent  the 
allies  away,  an  inscription  was  set  up,  which  said: — 


JEAN  FROISSART  75 

"Here  did  four  thousand  men  from  Pelops'  land 
Against  three  hundred  myriads  bravely  stand." 

This  was  in  honour  of  all.    Another  was  for  the  Spartans  alone: — 

"Go,  stranger,  and  to  Lacedaemon  tell 
That  here,  obeying  her  behests,  we  fell." 

This  was  for  the  Lacedaemonians.    The  seer  had  the  following: — 

"The  great  Megistias'  tomb  you  here  may  view. 

Whom  slew  the  Medes,  fresh  from  Spercheius'  fords. 
Well  the  wise  seer  the  coming  death  foreknew, 
Yet  scorned  he  to  forsake  his  Spartan  lords." 

These  inscriptions,  and  the  pillars  likewise,  were  all  set  up  by 
the  Amphictyons,  except  that  in  honour  of  Megistias,  which 
was  inscribed  to  him  (on  account  of  their  sworn  friendship)  by 
Simonides,  the  son  of  Leoprepes. 


JEAN  FROISSART 

1337-1410 

WAT  TYLER'S  REBELLION 

[From  Chronicles  of  England,  France,  Spain,  and  the  Adjoining 
Countries,  translated  by  Thomas  Johnes  of  Hafod  (1803-1805). 

The  Peasants'  Revolt  occurred  in  138 1,  in  the  reign  of  Richard  the 
Second.] 

While  these  conferences  were  going  forward,  there  happened  in 
England  great  commotions  among  the  lower  ranks  of  the  people, 
by  which  England  was  near  ruined  without  resource.  Never  was 
a  country  in  such  jeopardy  as  this  was  at  that  period,  and  all 
through  the  too  great  comfort  of  the  commonalty.  Rebellion  was 
stirred  up,  as  it  was  formerly  done  in  France  by  the  Jacques 
Bonshommes,  who  did  much  evil,  and  sore  troubled  the  king- 
dom of  France.  It  is  marvellous  from  what  a  trifle  this  pestilence 
raged  in  England.    In  order  that  it  may  serve  as  an  example 


76  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

to  mankind,  I  will  speak  of  all  that  was  done,  from  the  information 
I  had  at  the  time  on  the  subject. 

It  is  customary  in  England,  as  well  as  in  several  other  coun- 
tries, for  the  nobility  to  have  great  privileges  over  the  common- 
alty, whom  they  keep  in  bondage;  that  is  to  say,  they  are  bound 
by  law  and  custom  to  plough  the  lands  of  gentlemen,  to  harvest 
the  grain,  to  carry  it  home  to  the  barn,  to  thrash  and  winnow  it: 
they  are  also  bound  to  harvest  the  hay  and  carry  it  home.  All 
these  services  they  are  obliged  to  perform  for  their  lords,  and 
many  more  in  England  than  in  other  countries.  The  prelates 
and  gentlemen  are  thus  served.  In  the  counties  of  Kent,  Essex, 
Sussex,  and  Bedford,  these  services  are  more  oppressive  than  in 
all  the  rest  of  the  kingdom. 

The  evil-disposed  in  these  districts  began  to  rise,  saying  they 
were  too  severely  oppressed;  that  at  the  beginning  of  the  world 
there  were  no  slaves,  and  that  no  one  ought  to  be  treated  as  such, 
unless  he  had  committed  treason  against  his  lord,  as  Lucifer  had 
done  tigainst  God;  but  they  had  done  no  such  thing,  for  they  were 
neither  angels  nor  spirits,  but  men  formed  after  the  same  Hkeness 
with  their  lords,  who  treated  them  as  beasts.  This  they  would 
not  longer  bear,  but  had  determined  to  be  free,  and  if  they 
laboured  or  did  any  other  works  for  their  lords,  they  would 
be  paid  for  it. 

A  crazy  priest  in  the  county  of  Kent,  called  John  Ball,  who,  for 
his  absurd  preaching,  had  been  thrice  confined  in  the  prison  of 
the  archbishop  of  Canterbury,  was  greatly 'instrumental  in  in- 
flaming them  with  those  ideas.  He  was  accustomed,  every  Sun- 
day after  mass,  as  the  people  were  coming  out  of  the  church,  to 
preach  to  them  in  the  market-place  and  assemble  a  crowd  around 
him;  to  whom  he  would  say:  "My  good  friends,  things  cannot 
go  on  well  in  England,  nor  ever  will,  until  everything  shall  be  in 
common;  when  there  shall  neither  be  vassal  nor  lord,  and  all  dis- 
tinctions levelled;  when  the  lords  shall  be  no  more  masters  than 
ourselves.    How  ill  have  they  used  us!  and  for  what  reason  do 


JEAN  FROISSART  .  77 

they  thus  hold  us  in  bondage?  Are  we  not  all  descended  from  the 
same  parents,  Adam  and  Eve?  and  what  can  they  show,  or  what 
reasons  give,  why  they  should  be  more  the  masters  than  our- 
selves? except,  perhaps,  in  making  us  labour  and  work,  for  them 
to  spend.  They  are  clothed  in  velvets  and  rich  stuffs,  orna- 
mented with  ermine  and  other  furs,  while  we  are  forced  to  wear 
poor  cloth.  They  have  wines,  spices,  and  fine  bread,  when  we 
have  only  rye  and  the  refuse  of  the  straw;  and,  if  we  drink,  it 
must  be  water.  They  have  handsome  seats  and  manors,  when 
we  must  brave  the  wind  and  rain  in  our  labours  in  the  field;  but 
it  is  from  our  labour  that  they  have  wherewith  to  support  their 
pomp.  We  are  called  slaves;  and,  if  we  do  not  perform  our  serv- 
ices, we  are  beaten,  and  we  have  not  any  sovereign  to  whom  we 
can  complain,  or  who  wishes  to  hear  us  and  do  us  justice.  Let 
us  go  to  the  king,  who  is  young,  and  remonstrate  with  him  on  our 
servitude,  telling  him  we  must  have  it  otherwise,  or  that  we  shall 
find  a  remedy  for  it  ourselves.  If  we  wait  on  him  in  a  body,  all 
those  who  come  under  the  appellation  of  slaves,  or  are  held  in 
bondage,  will  follow  us,  in  the  hopes  of  being  free.  When  the 
king  shall  see  us,  y^  shall  obtain  a  favourable  answer,  or  we  must 
then  seek  ourselves  to  amend  our  condition." 

With  such  words  as  these  did  John  Ball  harangue  the  people,  at 
his  village,  every  Sunday  after  mass,  for  which  he  was  much  be- 
loved by  them.  Some  who  wished  no  good  declared  it  was  very 
true,  and  murmuring  to  each  other,  as  they  were  going  to  the 
fields,  on  the  road  from  one  village  to  another,  or  at  their  different 
houses,  said,  "John  Ball  preaches  such  and  such  things,  and  he 
speaks  truth." 

The  archbishop  of  Canterbury,  on  being  informed  of  this,  had 
John  Ball  arrested,  and  imprisoned  for  two  or  three  months  by 
way  of  punishment;  but  it  would  have  been  better  if  he  had  been 
confined  during  his  life,  or  had  been  put  to  death,  than  to  have 
been  suffered  thus  to  act.  The  archbishop  set  him  at  liberty,  for 
he  could  not  for  conscience'  sake  have  put  him  to  death.    The 


78  .        PROSE  NARRATIVES 

moment  John  Ball  was  out  of  prison,  he  returned  to  his  former 
errors.  Numbers  in  the  city  of  London  having  heard  of  his 
preaching,  being  envious  of  the  rich  men  and  nobility,  began  to 
say  among  themselves  that  the  kingdom  was  too  badly  governed, 
and  the  nobility  had  seized  on  all  the  gold  and  silver  coin.  These 
wicked  Londoners,  therefore,  began  to  assemble  and  to  rebel: 
they  sent  to  tell  those  in  the  adjoining  counties  they  might  come 
boldly  to  London,  and  bring  their  companions  with  them,  for 
they  would  find  the  town  open  to  them,  and  the  commonalty  in 
the  same  way  of  thinking;  that  they  would  press  the  king  so  much 
there  should  no  longer  be  a  slave  in  England. 

These  promises  stirred  up  those  in  the  counties  of  Kent,  Essex, 
Sussex,  and  Bedford,  and  the  adjoining  country,  so  that  they 
marched  towards  London;  and,  when  they  arrived  near,  they 
were  upwards  of  sixty  thousand.  They  had  a  leader  called  Wat 
Tyler,  and  with  him  were  Jack  Straw  and  John  Ball:  these  three 
were  their  commanders,  but  the  principal  was  Wat  Tyler.  This 
Wat  had  been  a  tiler  of  houses,  a  bad  man,  and  a  great  enemy  to 
the  nobility.  When  these  wicked  people  first  began  to  rise,  all 
London,  except  their  friends,  were  very  much  frightened.  The 
mayor  and  rich  citizens  assembled  in  council,  on  hearing  they 
were  coming  to  London,  and  debated  whether  they  should  shut 
the  gates  and  refuse  to  admit  them;  but,  having  well  considered, 
they  determined  not  to  do  so,  as  they  should  run  a  risk  of  having 
the  suburbs  burnt. 

The  gates  were  therefore  thrown  open,  when  they  entered  in 
troops  of  one  or  two  hundred,  by  twenties  or  thirties,  according 
to  the  populousness  of  the  towns  they  came  from;  and  as  they 
came  into  London  they  lodged  themselves.  But  it  is  a  truth,  that 
full  two-thirds  of  these  people  knew  not  what  they  wanted,  nor 
what  they  sought  for:  they  followed  one  another  like  sheep,  or 
like  to  the  shepherds  of  old,  who  said  they  were  going  to  conquer 
the  Holy  Land,  and  afterwards  accomplished  nothing.  In  such 
manner  did  these  poor  fellows  and  vassals  come  to  London  from 


JEAN  FROISSART.  79 

distances  of  a  hundred  and  sixty  leagues,  but  the  greater  part 
from  those  counties  I  have  mentioned,  and  on  their  arrival  they 
demanded  to  see  the  king.  The  gentlemen  of  the  country,  the 
knights  and  squires,  began  to  be  alarmed  when  they  saw  the 
people  thus  rise;  and,  if  they  were  frightened,  they  had  sufficient 
reason,  for  less  causes  create  fear.  They  began  to  collect  together 
as  well  as  they  could. 

The  same  day  that  these  wicked  men  of  Kent  were  on  their 
road  towards  London,  the  princess  of  Wales,  mother  to  the  king, 
was  returning  from  a  pilgrimage  to  Canterbury.  She  ran  great 
risks  from  them;  for  these  scoundrels  attacked  her  car,  and 
caused  much  confusion,  which  greatly  frightened  the  good  lady, 
lest  they  should  do  some  violence  to  her  or  to  her  ladies.  God, 
however,  preserved  her  from  this,  and  she  came  in  one  day  from 
Canterbury  to  London,  without  venturing  to  make  any  stop  by 
the  way.  Her  son  Richard  was  this  day  in  the  Tower  of  London : 
thither  the  princess  came,  and  found  the  king  attended  by  the 
earl  of  SaHsbury,  the  archbishop  of  Canterbury,  sir  Robert  de 
Namur,  the  lord  de  Gommegines,  and  several  more,  who  had 
kept  near  his  person  from  suspicions  of  his  subjects  who  were 
thus  assembling  without  knowing  what  they  wanted.  This 
rebellion  was  well  known  to  be  in  agitation  in  the  king's  palace 
before  it  broke  out  and  the  country  people  had  left  their  homes; 
to  which  the  king  applied  no  remedy,  to  the  great  astonishment 
of  every  one.  In  order  that  gentlemen  and  others  may  take  ex- 
ample, and  correct  wicked  rebels,  I  will  most  amply  detail  how 
this  business  was  conducted. 

On  Monday  preceding  the  feast  of  the  Holy  Sacrament,  in  the 
year  1381,  did  these  people  sally  forth  from  their  homes,  to  come 
to  London  to  remonstrate  with  the  king,  that  all  might  be  made 
free,  for  they  would  not  there  should  be  any  slaves  in  England. 
At  Canterbury  they  met  John  Ball  (who  thought  he  should  find 
there  the  archbishop,  but  he  was  at  London),  Wat  Tyler,  and 
Jack  Straw.    On  their  entrance  into  Canterbury  they  were  much 


8o  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

feasted  by  every  one,  for  the  inhabitants  were  of  their  way  of 
thinking;  and,  having  held  a  council,  they  resolved  to  march  to 
London,  and  also  to  send  emissaries  across  the  Thames  to  Essex, 
Suffolk,  Bedford,  and  other  counties,  to  press  the  people  to  march 
to  London  on  that  side,  and  thus,  as  it  were,  to  surround  it,  which 
the  king  would  not  be  able  to  prevent.  It  was  their  intention 
that  all  the  different  parties  should  be  collected  together  on  the 
feast  of  the  Holy  Sacrament,  or  on  the  following  day. 

Those  who  had  come  to  Canterbury  entered  the  church  of  St. 
Thomas,  and  did  much  damage:  they  pillaged  the  apartments  of 
the  archbishop,  saying,  as  they  were  carrying  off  different  articles: 
"This  chancellor  of  England  has  had  this  piece  of  furniture  very 
cheap:  he  must  now  give  us  an  account  of  the  revenues  of  Eng- 
land, and  of  the  large  sums  he  has  levied  since  the  coronation  of 
the  king."  After  they  had  defrauded  the  abbey  of  St.  Vincent, 
they  set  off  in  the  morning,  and  all  the  populace  of  Canterbury 
with  them,  taking  the  road  towards  Rochester.  They  collected 
the  people  from  the  villages  to  the  right  and  left,  and  marched 
along  like  a  tempest,  destroying  every  house  of  an  attorney  or 
king's  proctor,  or  that  belonged  to  the  archbishop,  sparing  none. 

On  their  arrival  at  Rochester  they  were  much  feasted,  for  the 
people  were  waiting  for  them,  being  of  their  party.  They  ad- 
vanced to  the  castle,  and  seizing  a  knight  called  sir  John  de  New- 
toun,  who  was  constable  of  it  and  captain  of  the  town,  they  told 
him  that  he  must  accompany  them  as  their  commander-in-chief, 
and  do  whatever  they  should  wish.  The  knight  endeavoured  to 
excuse  himself,  and  offered  good  reasons  for  it,  if  they  had  been 
listened  to;  but  they  said  to  him,  "  Sir  John,  if  you  will  not  act  as 
we  shall  order,  you  are  a  dead  man."  The  knight,  seeing  this 
outrageous  mob  ready  to  kill  him,  complied  with  their  request, 
and  very  unwillingly  put  himself  at  their  head.  They  had  acted 
in  a  similar  manner  in  the  other  counties  of  England,  in  Essex, 
Suffolk,  Cambridge,  Bedford,  Stafford,  Warwick,  and  Lincoln, 
where  they  forced  great  lords  and  knights,  such  as  the  lord  Man- 


JEAN  FROISSART  8i 

ley,  a  great  baron,  sir  Stephen  Hales,  and  sir  Thomas  Cossington, 
to  lead  and  march  with  them.  Now,  observe  how  fortunately 
matters  turned  out,  for  had  they  succeeded  in  their  intentions 
they  would  have  destroyed  the  whole  nobility  of  England:  after 
this  success,  the  people  of  other  nations  would  have  rebelled,  tak- 
ing example  from  those  of  Ghent  and  Flanders,  who  were  in  actual 
rebellion  against  their  lord.  In  this  same  year  the  Parisians  acted 
a  similar  part,  arming  themselves  with  leaden  maces.  They  were 
upwards  of  twenty  thousand,  as  I  shall  relate  when  I  come  to 
that  part  of  my  history;  but  I  will  first  go  on  with  this  rebellion 
in  England. 

When  those  who  had  lodged  at  Rochester  had  done  all  they 
wanted,  they  departed,  and,  crossing  the  river,  came  to  Dartford, 
but  always  following  their  plan  of  destroying  the  houses  of  law- 
yers or  proctors  on  the  right  and  left  of  their  road.  In  their  way 
they  cut  off  several  men's  heads,  and  continued  their  march  to 
Blackheath,  where  they  fixed  their  quarters:  they  said  they  were 
armed  for  the  king  and  commons  of  England.  When  the  citizens 
of  London  found  they  were  quartered  so  near  them,  they  closed 
the  gates  of  London  Bridge:  guards  were  placed  there  by  orders 
of  sir  William  Walworth,  mayor  of  London,  and  several  rich  citi- 
zens who  were  not  of  their  party;  but  there  were  in  the  city  more 
than  thirty  thousand  who  favoured  them. 

Those  who  were  at  Blackheath  had  information  of  this;  they 
sent,  therefore,  their  knight  to  speak  with  the  king,  and  to  tell 
him  that  what  they  were  doing  was  for  his  service,  for  the  king- 
dom had  been  for  several  years  wretchedly  governed,  to  the  great 
dishonour  of  the  realm  and  to  the  oppression  of  the  lower  ranks 
of  the  people,  by  his  uncles,  by  the  clergy,  and  in  particular  by 
the  archbishop  of  Canterbury,  his  chancellor,  from  whom  they 
would  have  an  account  of  his  ministry.  The  knight  dared  not 
say  nor  do  anything  to  the  contrary,  but,  advancing  to  the 
Thames  opposite  the  Tower,  he  took  boat  and  crossed  over. 
While  the  king  and  those  with  him  in  the  Tower  were  in  great 
6 


82  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

suspense,  and  anxious  to  receive  some  intelligence,  the  knight 
came  on  shore:  way  was  made  for  him,  and  he  was  conducted  to 
the  king,  who  was  in  an  apartment  with  the  princess  his  mother. 
There  were  also  with  the  king  his  two  maternal  brothers,  the  earl 
of  Kent  and  sir  John  Holland,  the  earls  of  Salisbury,  Warwick, 
Suffolk,  the  archbishop  of  Canterbury,  the  great  prior  of  the 
Templars  in  England,  sir  Robert  de  Namur,  the  lord  de  Vertain, 
the  lord  de  Gommegines,  sir  Henry  de  Sausselles,  the  mayor  of 
London,  and  several  of  the  principal  citizens. 

Sir  John  Newtoun,  who  was  well  known  to  them  all,  for  he  was 
one  of  the  king's  officers,  cast  himself  on  his  knees  and  said:  "  My 
much  redoubted  lord,  do  not  be  displeased  with  me  for  the  mes- 
sage I  am  about  to  deliver  to  you;  for,  my  dear  lord,  through 
force  I  am  come  hither." 

"By  no  means,  sir  John;  tell  us  what  you  are  charged  with: 
we  hold  you  excused." 

"My  very  redoubted  lord,  the  commons  of  your  realm  send 
me  to  you  to  entreat  you  would  come  and  speak  with  them  on 
Blackheath.  They  wish  to  have  no  one  but  yourself;  and  you 
need  not  fear  for  your  person,  for  they  will  not  do  you  the  least 
harm:  they  always  have  respected  and  will  respect  you  as  their 
king;  but  they  will  tell  you  many  things,  which  they  say  it  is 
necessary  you  should  hear;  with  which,  however,  they  have  not 
empowered  me  to  acquaint  you.  But,  dear  lord,  have  the  good- 
ness to  give  me  such  an  answer  as  may  satisfy  them,  and  that 
they  may  be  convinced  I  have  really  been  in  your  presence;  for 
they  have  my  children  as  hostages  for  my  return,  whom  they 
will  assuredly  put  to  death  if  I  do  not  go  back." 

The  king  replied,  "  You  shall  speedily  have  an  answer."  Upon 
this  he  called  a  council  to  consider  what  was  to  be  done.  The 
king  was  advised  to  say  that  if  on  Thursday  they  would  come 
down  to  the  river  Thames,  he  would  without  fail  speak  with 
them.  Sir  John  Newtoun,  on  receiving  this  answer,  was  well 
satisfied  therewith,  and,  taking  leave  of  the  king  and  barons. 


JEAN  FROISSART  83 

departed:  having  entered  his  boat,  he  recrossed  the  Thames  and 
returned  to  Blackheath,  where  he  had  left  upwards  of  sixty 
thousand  men.  He  told  them  from  the  king,  that  if  they  would 
send  on  the  morrow  morning  their  leaders  to  the  Thames,  the 
king  would  come  and  hear  what  they  had  to  say.  This  answer 
gave  great  pleasure,  and  they  were  contented  with  it:  they 
passed  the  night  as  well  as  they  could;  but  you  must  know  that 
one-fourth  of  them  fasted  for  Want  of  provision,  as  they  had 
not  brought  any  with  them,  at  which  they  were  much  vexed, 
as  may  be  supposed. 

At  this  time  the  earl  of  Buckingham  was  in  Wales,  where  he 
possessed  great  estates  in  right  of  his  wife,  who  was  daughter  of 
the  earl  of  Hereford  and  Northampton;  but  the  common  report 
about  London  was  that  he  favoured  these  people:  some  assured 
it  for  a  truth,  as  having  seen  him  among  them,  because  there  was 
one  Thomas  very  much  resembling  him  from  the  county  of  Cam- 
bridge. As  for  the  English  barons  who  were  at  Plymouth  making 
preparations  for  their  voyage,  they  had  heard  of  this  rebellion, 
and  that  the  people  were  rising  in  all  parts  of  the  kingdom.  Fear- 
ful lest  their  voyage  should  be  prevented,  or  that  the  populace, 
as  they  had  done  at  Southampton,  Winchelsea,  and  Arundel, 
should  attack  them,  they  heaved  their  anchors,  and  with  some 
difficulty  left  the  harbour,  for  the  wind  was  against  them,  and 
put  to  sea,  when  they  cast  anchor  to  wait  for  a  wind. 

The  duke  of  Lancaster  was  on  the  borders,  between  la  Morlane, 
Roxburgh,  and  Melrose,  holding  conferences  with  the  Scots:  he 
had  also  received  intelligence  of  this  rebellion,  and  the  danger  his 
person  was  in,  for  he  well  knew  he  was  unpopular  with  the  com- 
mon people  of  England.  Notwithstanding  this,  he  managed  his 
treaty  very  prudently  with  the  Scots  commissioners,  the  earl  of 
Douglas,  the  earl  of  Moray,  the  earl  of  Sutherland,  the  earl  of 
Mar,  and  Thomas  de  Vesey.  The  Scotsmen  who  were  conduct- 
ing the  treaty  on  the  part  of  the  king  and  the  country  knew  also 
of  the  rebellion  in  England,  and  how  the  populace  were  rising 


84  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

everywhere  against  the  nobihty.  They  said  that  England  was 
shaken  and  in  great  danger  of  being  ruined,  for  which  in  their 
treaties  they  bore  the  harder  on  the  duke  of  Lancaster  and  his 
council. 

We  will  now  return  to  the  commonalty  of  England,  and  say 
how  they  continued  in  their  rebellion. 

On  Corpus  Christi  day  king  Richard  heard  mass  in  the  tower 
of  London,  with  all  his  lords,  a*nd  afterwards  entered  his  barge, 
attended  by  the  earls  of  Salisbury,  Warwick,  and  Suffolk,  with 
other  knights.  He  rowed  down  the  Thames  towards  Rother- 
hithe,  a  manor  belonging  to  the  crown,  where  were  upwards  of 
ten  thousand  men,  who  had  come  from  Blackheath  to  see  the 
king  and  to  speak  to  him:  when  they  perceived  his  barge  ap- 
proach, they  set  up  such  shouts  and  cries  as  if  all  the  devils  in 
hell  had  been  in  their  company.  They  had  their  knight,  sir  John 
Newtoun,  with  them;  for,  in  case  the  king  had  not  come  and  they 
found  he  had  made  a  jest  of  them,  they  would,  as  they  had 
threatened,  have  cut  him  to  pieces. 

When  the  king  and  his  lords  saw  this  crowd  of  people,  and  the 
wildness  of  their  manner,  there  was  not  one  among  them  so  bold 
and  determined  but  felt  alarmed:  the  king  was  advised  by  his 
barons  not  to  land,  but  to  have  his  barge  rowed  up  and  down  the 
river.  "  What  do  ye  wish  for?  "  demanded  the  king;  " I  am  come 
hither  to  hear  what  you  have  to  say."  Those  near  him  cried  out 
with  one  voice:  "  We  wish  thee  to  land,  when  we  will  remonstrate 
with  thee,  and  tell  thee  more  at  our  ease  what  our  wants  are." 
The  earl  of  Salisbury  then  repHed  for  the  king,  and  said:  "Gen- 
tlemen, you  are  not  properly  dressed,  nor  in  a  fit  condition  for 
the  king  to  talk  with  you." 

Nothing  more  was  said;  for  the  king  was  desired  to  return  to 
the  Tower  of  London,  from  whence  he  had  set  out.  When  the 
people  saw  they  could  obtain  nothing  more,  they  were  inflamed 
with  passion,  and  went  back  to  Blackheath,  where  the  main  body 
was,  to  relate  the  answer  they  had  received,  and  how  the  king 


t 


JEAN  FROISSART  85 

was  returned  to  the  Tower.  They  all  then  cried  out,  ''Let  us 
march  instantly  to  London."  They  immediately  set  off,  and,  in 
their  road  thither,  they  destroyed  the  houses  of  lawyers,  cour- 
tiers, and  monasteries.  Advancing  into  the  suburbs  of  London, 
which  were  very  handsome  and  extensive,  they  pulled  down 
many  fine  houses:  in  particular,  they  demolished  the  prison  of 
the  king  called  the  Marshalsea,  and  set  at  liberty  all  those  con- 
fined within  it.  They  did  much  damage  to  the  suburbs,  and  men- 
aced the  Londoners  at  the  entrance  of  the  bridge  for  having  shut 
the  gates  of  it,  saying  they  would  set  fire  to  the  suburbs,  take  the 
city  by  storm,  and  afterwards  burn  and  destroy  it. 

With  respect  to  the  common  people  of  London,  numbers  were 
of  their  opinions,  and,  on  assembling  together,  said:  "Why  will 
you  refuse  admittance  to  these  honest  men?  They  are  our 
friends,  and  what  they  are  doing  is  for  our  good."  It  was  then 
found  necessary  to  open  the  gates,  when  crowds  rushed  in,  and 
ran  to  those- shops  which  seemed  well  stored  with  provision:  if 
they  sought  for  meat  or  drink  it  was  placed  before  them,  and 
nothing  refused,  but  all  manner  of  good  cheer  offered,  in  hopes  of 
appeasing  them. 

Their  leaders,  John  Ball,  Jack  Straw,  and  Wat  Tyler,  then 
marched  through  London,  attended  by  more  than  twenty  thou- 
sand men,  to  the  palace  of  the  Savoy,  which  is  a  handsome  build- 
ing on  the  road  to  Westminster,  situated  on  the  banks  of  the 
Thames,  belonging  to  the  duke  of  Lancaster;  they  immediately 
killed  the  porters,  pressed  into  the  house,  and  set  it  on  fire.  Not 
content  with  committing  this  outrage,  they  went  to  the  house 
of  the  knights-hospitalers  of  Rhodes,  dedicated  to  St.  John  of 
Mount  Carmel,  which  they  burnt,  together  with  their  hospital 
and  church.  They  afterwards  paraded  the  streets,  and  killed 
every  Fleming  they  could  find,  whether  in  house,  church,  or 
hospital;  not  one  escaped  death.  They  broke  open  several 
houses  of  the  Lombards,  taking  whatever  money  they  could  lay 
their  hands  on,  none  daring  to  oppose  them.    They  murdered  a 


S6  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

rich  citizen  called  Richard  Lyon,  to  whom  Wat  Tyler  had  been 
formerly  servant  in  France;  but,  having  once  beaten  this  varlet, 
he  had  not  forgotten  it,  and,  having  carried  his  men  to  his  house, 
ordered  his  head  to  be  cut  off,  placed  upon  a  pike,  and  carried 
through  the  streets  of  London.  Thus  did  these  wicked  people  act 
like  madmen;  and,  on  this  Thursday,  they  did  much  mischief  to 
the  city  of  London. 

Towards  evening  they  fixed  their  quarters  in  a  square  called 
St.  Catherine's,  before  the  Tower,  declaring  they  would  not  de- 
part thence  imtil  they  should  obtain  from  the  king  everything 
they  wanted,  and  have  all  their  desires  satisfied;  and  the  chan- 
cellor of  England  made  to  account  with  them,  and  show  how  the 
great  sums  which  had  been  raised  were  expended;  menacing, 
that  if  he  did  not  render  such  an  account  as  was  agreeable  to 
them,  it  would  be  the  worse  for  him.  Considering  the  various 
ills  they  had  done  to  foreigners,  they  lodged  themselves  before 
the  Tower.  You  may  easily  suppose  what  a  miserable  situation 
the  king  was  in,  and  those  with  him;  for  at  times  these  rebelUous 
fellows  hooted  as  loud  as  if  the  devils  were  in  them. 

About  evening  a  council  was  held  in  the  presence  of  the  king, 
the  barons  who  were  in  the  Tower  with  him,  sir  WiUiam  Wal- 
worth the  mayor,  and  some  of  the  principal  citizens,  when  it  was 
proposed  to  arm  themselves,  and  during  the  night  to  fall  upon 
these  wretches,  who  were  in  the  streets  and  amounted  to  sixty 
thousand,  while  they  were  asleep  and  drunk,  for  then  they  might 
be  killed  hke  flies,  and  not  one  in  twenty  among  them  had  arms. 
The  citizens  were  very  capable  of  doing  this,  for  they  had  secretly 
received  into  their  houses  their  friends  and  servants,  properly 
prepared  to  act.  Sir  Robert  Knolles  remained  in  his  house, 
guarding  his  property,  with  more  than  six  score  companions  com- 
pletely armed,  who  would  have  instantly  sallied  forth.  Sir  Per- 
ducas  d'Albreth  was  also  in  London  at  that  period,  and  would 
have  been  of  great  service;  so  that  they  could  have  mustered  up- 
wards of  eight  thousand  men,  well  armed.    But  nothing  was 


JEAN  FROISSART  87 

done;  for  they  were  too  much  afraid  of  the  commonalty  of  Lon- 
don; and  the  advisers  of  the  king,  the  earl  of  Salisbury  and  others, 
said  to  him:  ''Sir,  if  you  can  appease  them  by  fair  words,  it  will 
be  so  much  the  better,  and  good  humouredly  grant  them  what 
they  ask;  for,  should  we  begin  what  we  cannot  go  through,  we 
shall  never  be  able  to  recover  it:  it  will  be  all  over  with  us  and  our 
heirs,  and  England  will  be  a  desert."  This  counsel  was  followed, 
and  the  mayor  ordered  to  make  no  movement.  He  obeyed,  as 
in  reason  he  ought.  In  the  city  of  London,  with  the  mayor,  there 
are  twelve  sheriffs,  of  whom  nine  were  for  the  king  and  three  for 
these  wicked  people,  as  it  was  afterwards  discovered,  and  for 
which  they  then  paid  dearly. 

On  Friday  morning  those  lodged  in  the  square  before  St. 
Catherine's,  near  the  Tower,  began  to  make  themselves  ready; 
they  shouted  much,  and  said  that  if  the  king  would  not  come 
out  to  them,  they  would  attack  the  Tower,  storm  it,  and  slay 
all  in  it.  The  king  was  alarmed  at  these  menaces,  and  resolved 
to  speak  with  them;  he  therefore  sent  orders  for  them  to  retire 
to  a  handsome  meadow  at  Mile-end,  where,  in  the  summer 
time,  people  go  to  amuse  themselves,  and  that  there  the  king 
would  grant  them  their  demands.  Proclamation  was  made 
in  the  king's  name  for  all  those  who  wished  to  speak  with  him 
to  go  to  the  above-mentioned  place,  where  he  would  not  fail 
to  meet  them. 

The  commonalty  of  the  different  villages  began  to  march 
thither;  but  all  did  not  go,  nor  had  they  the  same  objects  in  view, 
for  the  greater  part  only  wished  for  the  riches  and  destruction  of 
the  nobles,  and  the  plunder  of  London.  This  was  the  principal 
cause  of  their  rebellion,  as  they  very  clearly  showed;  for  when  the 
gates  of  the  Tower  were  thrown  open,  and  the  king,  attended  by 
his  two  brothers,  the  earls  of  Salisbury,  of  Warwick,  of  Suffolk, 
sir  Robert  de  Namur,  the  lords  de  Vertain  and  de  Gommegines, 
with  several  others,  had  passed  through  them,  Wat  Tyler,  Jack 
Straw,  and  John  Ball,  with  upwards  of  four  hundred,  rushed  in 


88  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

by  force,  and,  running  from  chamber  to  chamber,  found  the 
archbishop  of  Canterbury,  whose  name  was  Simon,  a  valiant  and 
wise  man,  and  chancellor  of  England,  who  had  just  celebrated 
mass  before  the  king:  he  was  seized  by  these  rascals,  and  be- 
headed. The  prior  of  St.  John's  suffered  the  same  fate,  and  like- 
wise a  Franciscan  friar,  a  doctor  of  physic,  who  was  attached  to 
the  duke  of  Lancaster,  out  of  spite  to  his  master,  and  also  a 
serjeant-at-arms  of  the  name  of  John  Laige.  They  fixed  these 
four  heads  on  long  pikes,  and  had  them  carried  before  them 
through  the  streets  of  London:  when  they  had  sufficiently  played 
with  them,  they  placed  them  on  London  Bridge,  as  if  they  had 
been  traitors  to  their  king  and  country. 

These  scoundrels  entered  the  apartment  of  the  princess,  and 
cut  her  bed,  which  so  much  terrified  her  that  she  fainted,  and  in 
this  condition  was  by  her  servants  and  ladies  carried  to  the  river- 
side, when  she  was  put  into  a  covered  boat,  and  conveyed  to  the 
house  called  the  Wardrobe,  where  she  continued  that  day  and 
night  like  to  a  woman  half  dead,  until  she  was  comforted  by  the 
king  her  son,  as  you  shall  presently  hear. 

When  the  king  was  on  his  way  to  the  place  called  Mile-end, 
without  London,  his  two  brothers,  the  earl  of  Kent  and  sir  John 
Holland,  stole  off  and  galloped  from  his  company,  as  did  also 
the  lord  de  Gommegines,  not  daring  to  show  themselves  to  the 
populace  at  Mile-end  for  fear  of  their  lives. 

On  the  king's  arrival,  attended  by  the  barons,  he  found  up- 
wards of  sixty  thousand  men  assembled  from  different  villages 
and  counties  of  England:  he  instantly  advanced  into  the  midst 
of  them,  saying  in  a  pleasant  manner,  "My  good  people,  I  am 
your  king  and  your  lord:  what  is  it  you  want?  and  what  do  you 
wish  to  say  to  me?"  Those  who  heard  him  answered,  ''  We  wish 
thou  wouldst  make  us  free  for  ever,  us,  our  heirs  and  our  lands,  and 
that  we  should  no  longer  be  called  slaves,  nor  held  in  bondage." 
The  king  replied,  "I  grant  your  wish:  now,  therefore,  return  to 
your  homes  and  the  places  from  whence  you  came,  leaving  be- 


JEAN  FROISSART  89 

hind  two  or  three  men  from  each  village,  to  whom  I  will  order 
letters  to  be  given  sealed  with  my  seal,  which  they  shall  carry 
back  with  every  demand  you  have  made  fully  granted:  and,  in 
order  that  you  may  be  the  more  satisfied,  I  will  direct  that  my 
banners  shall  be  sent  to  every  stewardship,  castlewick,  and 
corporation,"  These  words  greatly  appeased  the  novices  and 
well-meaning  ones  who  were  there,  and  knew  not  what  they 
wanted,  saying,  ''It  is  well  said:  we  do  not  wish  for  more." 
The  people  were  thus  quieted,  and  began  to  return  towards 
London. 

The  king  added  a  few^  words,  which  pleased  them  much:  "You 
my  good  people  of  Kent,  shall  have  one  of  my  banners;  and  you 
also  of  Essex,  Sussex,  Bedford,  Suffolk,  Cambridge,  Stafford,  and 
Lincoln,  shall  each  of  you  have  one;  and  I  pardon  you  all  for 
what  you  have  hitherto  done;  but  you  must  follow  my  banners, 
and  now  return  home  on  the  terms  I  have  mentioned."  They 
unanimously  rephed  they  would.  Thus  did  this  great  assembly 
break  up,  and  set  out  for  London.  The  king  instantly  employed 
upwards  of  thirty  secretaries,  who  drew  up  the  letters  as  fast  as 
they  could;  and,  having  sealed  and  delivered  them  to  these 
people,  they  departed,  and  returned  to  their  own  counties. 

The  principal  mischief  remained  behind:  I  mean  Wat  Tyler, 
Jack  Straw,  and  John  Ball,  who  declared  that  though  the  people 
were  satisfied,  they  would  not  thus  depart;  and  they  had  more 
than  thirty  thousand  who  were  of  their  mind.  They  continued 
in  the  city,  without  any  wish  to  have  their  letters,  or  the  king's 
seal;  but  did  all  they  could  to  throw  the  town  into  such  confusion 
that  the  lords  and  rich  citizens  might  be  murdered,  and  their 
houses  pillaged  and  destroyed.  The  Londoners  suspected  this, 
and  kept  themselves  at  home,  with  their  friends  and  servants, 
well  armed  and  prepared,  every  one  according  to  his  abilities. 

When  the  people  had  been  appeased  at  Mile-end  Green,  and 
were  setting  off  for  their  different  towns  as  speedily  as  they  could 
receive  the  king's  letters,  king  Richard  went  to  the  Wardrobe, 


90  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

where  the  princess  was  in  the  greatest  fear:  he  comforted  her,  as 
he  was  very  able  to  do,  and  passed  there  the  night. 

I  must  relate  an  adventure  which  happened  to  these  clowns 
before  Norwich,  and  to  their  leader,  called  Wilham  Lister,  who 
was  from  the  county  of  Stafford.  On  the  same  day  these  wicked 
people  burnt  the  palace  of  the  Savoy,  the  church  and  house  of 
St.  John,  the  hospital  of  the  Templars,  pulled  down  the  prison  of 
Newgate,  and  set  at  liberty  all  the  prisoners,  there  were  collected 
numerous  bodies  from  Lincolnshire,  Norfolk,  and  Suffolk,  who 
proceeded  on  their  march  towards  London,  according  to  the 
orders  they  had  received,  under  the  direction  of  Lister. 

In  their  road  they  stopped  near  Norwich,  and  forced  every  one 
to  join  them,  so  that  none  of  the  commonalty  remained  behind. 
The  reason  why  they  stopped  near  Norwich  was,  that  the  gover- 
nor of  the  town  was  a  knight  called  sir  Robert  Salle:  he  was  not 
by  birth  a  gentleman,  but,  having  acquired  great  renown  for  his 
abihty  and  courage,  king  Edward  had  created  him  a  knight:  he 
was  the  handsomest  and  strongest  man  in  England.  Lister  and 
his  companions  took  it  into  their  heads  they  would  make  this 
knight  their  commander,  and  carry  him  with  them,  in  order  to  be 
the  more  feared.  They  sent  orders  to  him  to  come  out  into  the 
fields  to  speak  with  them,  or  they  would  attack  and  burn  the  city. 
The  knight,  considering  it  was  much  better  for  him  to  go  to  them 
than  they  should  commit  such  outrages,  mounted  his  horse,  and 
went  out  of  the  town  alone,  to  hear  what  they  had  to  say.  When 
they  perceived  him  coming,  they  showed  him  every  mark  of  re- 
spect, and  courteously  entreated  him  to  dismount,  and  talk  with 
them.  He  did  dismount,  and  committed  a  great  folly;  for,  when 
he  had  so  done,  having  surrounded  him,  they  at  first  conversed 
in  a  friendly  way,  saying,  "Robert,  you  are  a  knight,  and  a  man 
of  great  weight  in  this  country,  renowned  for  your  valour;  yet, 
notwithstanding  all  this,  we  know  who  you  are:  you  are  not  a 
gentleman,  but  the  son  of  a  poor  mason,  just  such  as  ourselves. 
Do  you  come  with  us,  as  our  commander,  and  we  will  make  so 


JEAN  FROISSART  91 

great  a  lord  of  you  that  one  quarter  of  England  shall  be  under 
your  command." 

The  knight,  on  hearing  them  thus  speak,  was  exceedingly 
angry;  he  would  never  have  consented  to  such  a  proposal;  and, 
eyeing  them  with  inflamed  looks,  answered,  "Begone,  wicked 
scoundrels  and  false  traitors  as  you  are:  would  you  have  me 
desert  my  natural  lord  for  such  a  company  of  knaves  as  you? 
would  you  have  me  dishonour  myself?  I  would  much  rather  you 
were  all  hanged,  for  that  must  be  your  end."  On  saying  this,  he 
attempted  to  mount  his  horse;  but,  his  foot  slipping  from  the 
stirrup,  his  horse  took  fright.  They  then  shouted  out,  and  cried, 
"Put  him  to  death."  When  he  heard  this,  he  let  his  horse  go; 
and,  drawing  a  handsome  Bordeaux  sword,  he  began  to  skirmish, 
and  soon  cleared  the  crowd  from  about  him,  that  it  was  a 
pleasure  to  see.  Some  attempted  to  close  with  him;  but  with 
each  stroke  he  gave,  he  cut  off  heads,  arms,  feet,  or  legs.  There 
were  none  so  bold  but  were  afraid;  and  sir  Robert  performed 
that  day  marvellous  feats  of  arms.  These  wretches  were  upwards 
of  forty  thousand;  they  shot  and  flung  at  him  such  things,  that 
had  he  been  clothed  in  steel  instead  of  being  unarmed,  he  must 
have  been  overpowered:  however,  he  killed  twelve  of  them, 
besides  many  whom  he  wounded.  At  last  he  was  overthrown, 
when  they  cut  off  his  legs  and  arms,  and  rent  his  body  in  piece- 
meal. Thus  ended  sir  Robert  Salle,  which  was  a  great  pity;  and 
when  the  knights  and  squires  in  England  heard  of  it,  they  were 
much  enraged. 

On  the  Saturday  morning  the  king  left  the  Wardrobe,  and  went 
to  Westminster,  where  he  and  all  the  lords  heard  mass  in  the 
abbey.  In  this  church  there  is  a  statue  of  our  Lady  in  a  small 
chapel  that  has  many  virtues  and  performs  great  miracles,  in 
which  the  kings  of  England  have  much  faith.  The  king,  having 
paid  his  devotions  and  made  his  offerings  to  this  shrine,  mounted 
his  horse  about  nine  o'clock,  as  did  the  barons  who  were  with 
him.    They  rode  along  the  causeway  to  return  to  London;  but, 


92  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

when  they  had  gone  a  little  way,  he  turned  to  a  road  on  the  left 
to  go  from  London. 

This  day  all  the  rabble  were  again  assembled,  under  the  con- 
duct of  Wat  Tyler,  Jack  Straw,  and  John  Ball,  to  parley  at  a 
place  called  Smithfield,  where,  every  Friday,  the  horse-market 
is  kept.  They  amounted  to  upwards  of  twenty  thousand,  all  of 
the  same  sort.  Many  more  were  in  the  city,  breakfasting  and 
drinking  Rhenish  and  Malmsey  Madeira  wines,  in  taverns  and 
at  the  houses  of  the  Lombards,  without  paying  for  anything; 
and  happy  was  he  who  could  give  them  good  cheer.  Those  who 
were  collected  in  Smithfield  had  the  king's  banners,  which  had 
been  given  to  them  the  preceding  evening;  and  these  reprobates 
wanted  to  pillage  the  city  this  same  day,  their  leaders  saying 
"  that  hitherto  they  had  done  nothing.  The  pardons  which  the 
king  has  granted  will  not  be  of  much  use  to  us;  but,  if  we  be  of 
the  same  mind,  we  shall  pillage  this  large,  rich,  and  powerful 
town  of  London,  before  those  from  Essex,  Suffolk,  Cambridge, 
Bedford,  Warwick,  Reading,  Lancashire,  Arundel,  Guildford, 
Coventry,  Lynne,  Lincoln,  York,  and  Durham  shall  arrive;  for 
they  are  on  the  road,  and  we  know  for  certain  that  Vaquier  and 
Lister  will  conduct  them  hither.  If  we  now  plunder  the  city  of 
the  wealth  that  is  in  it,  we  shall  have  been  beforehand,  and  shall 
not  repent  of  so  doing;  but  if  we  wait  for  their  arrival,  they  will 
wrest  it  from  us."  To  this  opinion  all  had  agreed,  when  the  king 
appeared  in  sight,  attended  by  sixty  horse.  He  was  not  think- 
ing of  them,  but  intended  to  have  continued  his  ride  without 
coming  into  London:  however,  when  he  came  before  the  abbey 
of  St.  Bartholomew,  which  is  in  Smithfield,  and  saw  the  crowd  of 
people,  he  stopped,  and  said  he  would  not  proceed  until  he  knew 
what  they  wanted;  and,  if  they  were  troubled,  he  would  appease 
them. 

The  lords  who  accompanied  him  stopped  also,  as  was  but  right, 
since  the  king  had  stopped;  when  Wat  Tyler,  seeing  the  king, 
said  to  his  men,  " Here  is  the  king:  I  will  go  and  speak  with  him: 


JEAN  FROISSART  93 

do  not  you  stir  from  hence  until  I  give  you  a  signal."  He  made  a 
motion  with  his  hand,  and  added,  ''When  you  shall  see  me  make 
this  sign,  then  step  forward,  and  kill  every  one  except  the  king; 
but  hurt  him  not,  for  he  is  young,  and  we  can  do  what  we  please 
with  him;  for,  by  carrying  him  with  us  through  England,  we  shall 
be  lords  of  it  without  any  opposition."  There  was  a  doublet- 
maker  of  London,  called  John  Tide,  who  had  brought  sixty  doub- 
lets, with  which  some  of  the  clowns  had  dressed  themselves;  and 
on  his  asking  who  was  to  pay,  for  he  must  have  for  them  thirty 
good  marks,  Tyler  replied,  ''Make  thyself  easy,  man;  thou  shalt 
be  well  paid  this  day:  look  to  me  for  it:  thou  hast  sufficient  se- 
curity for  them."  On  saying  this,  he  spurred  the  horse  on  which 
he  rode,  and,  leaving  his  men,  galloped  up  to  the  king,  and  came 
so  near  that  his  horse's  head  touched  the  crupper  of  that  of  the 
king.  The  first  words  he  said,  when  he  addressed  the  king,  were, 
"King,  dost  thou  see  all  those  men  there?" 

"Yes,"  replied  the  king;  "why  dost  thou  ask?" 
"Because  they  are  all  under  my  command,  and  have  sworn 
by  their  faith  and  loyalty  to  do  whatever  I  shall  order." 
"Very  well,"  said  the  king;  "I  have  no  objections  to  it." 
Tyler,  who  was   only  desirous  of  a  riot,  answered,   "And 
thinkest  thou,  king,  that  those  people  and  as  many  more  who 
are  in  the  city,   also  under   my  command,  ought   to  depart 
without  having  had  thy  letters?    Oh  no,  we  will  carry  them 
with  us." 

"Why,  "  replied  the  king,  "so  it  has  been  ordered,  and  they 
will  be  delivered  out  one  after  the  other:  but,  friend,  return  to 
thy  companions,  and  tell  them  to  depart  from  London:  be 
peaceable  and  careful  of  yourselves,  for  it  is  our  determination 
that  you  shall  all  of  you  have  your  letters  by  villages  and  towns, 
as  it  has  been  agreed  on." 

As  the  king  finished  speaking,  Wat  Tyler,  casting  his  eyes 
around  him,  spied  a  squire  attached  to  the  king's  person  bearing 
his  sword.    Tyler  mortally  hated  this  squire;  formerly  they  had 


94  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

had  words  together,  when  the  squire  ill-treated  him.  "  What,  art 
thou  there?"  cried  Tyler:  ''give  me  thy  dagger." 

"I  will  not,"  said  the  squire:  "why  should  I  give  it  thee?" 
The  king,  turning  to  him,  said,  "Give  it  him,  give  it  him"; 
which  he  did,  though  much  against  his  will.  When  Tyler  took  it, 
he  began  to  play  with  it  and  turn  it  about  in  his  hand,  and,  again 
addressing  the  squire,  said,  "Give  me  that  sword." 

"I  will  not,"  repHed  the  squire;  "for  it  is  the  king's  sword, 
and  thou  art  not  worthy  to  bear  it,  who  art  but  a  mechanic; 
and,  if  only  thou  and  I  were  together,  thou  wouldst  not  have 
dared  to  say  what  thou  hast  for  as  large  a  heap  of  gold  as  this 
church." 

"By  my  troth,"  answered  Tyler,  "I  will  not  eat  this  day 
before  I  have  thy  head." 

At  these  words,  the  mayor  of  London,  with  about  twelve  more, 
rode  forward,  armed  under  their  robes,  and,  pushing  through 
the  crowd,  saw  Tyler's  manner  of  behaving:  upon  which  he  said, 
"  Scoundrel,  how  dare  you  thus  behave  in  the  presence  of  the 
king,  and  utter  such  words?    It  is  too  impudent  for  such  as  thou." 

The  king  then  began  to  be  enraged,  and  said  to  the  mayor, 
"Lay  hands  on  him." 

Whilst  the  king  was  giving  this  order,  Tyler  had  addressed  the 
mayor,  saying,  "Hey,  in  God's  name,  what  I  have  said,  does  it 
concern  thee?  what  dost  thou  mean?"  "Truly,"  replied  the 
mayor,  who  found  himself  supported  by  the  king,  "does  it  be- 
come such  a  stinking  rascal  as  thou  art  to  use  such  speech  in  the 
presence  of  the  king,  my  natural  lord?  I  will  not  live  a  day,  if 
thou  pay  not  for  it."  Upon  this,  he  drew  a  kind  of  scimitar  he 
wore,  and  struck  Tyler  such  a  blow  on  the  head  as  felled  him  to 
his  horse's  feet.  When  he  was  down,  he  was  surrounded  on  all 
sides,  so  that  his  men  could  not  see  him;  and  one  of  the  king's 
squires,  called  John  Standwich,  immediately  leaped  from  his 
horse,  and,  drawing  a  handsome  sword  which  he  bore,  thrust  it 
into  his  belly,  and  thus  killed  him. 


JEAN  FROISSART  95 

His  men,  advancing,  saw  their  leader,  dead,  when  they  cried 
out,  ''They  have  killed  our  captain:  let  us  march  to  them,  and 
slay  the  whole."  On  these  words,  they  drew  up  in  a  sort  of 
battle-array,  each  man  having  his  bent  bow  before  him.  The 
king  certainly  hazarded  much  by  this  action,  but  it  turned  out 
fortunate;  for  when  Tyler  was  on  the  ground,  he  left  his  attend- 
ants, ordering  not  one  to  follow  him.  He  rode  up  to  these  re- 
beUious  fellows,  who  were  advancing  to  revenge  their  leader's 
death,  and  said  to  them,  "  Gentlemen,  what  are  you  about?  you 
shall  have  no  other  captain  but  me:  I  am  your  king:  remain 
peaceable."  When  the  greater  part  of  tljem  heard  these  words, 
they  were  quite  ashamed,  and  those  inclined  to  peace  began  to 
shp  away.  The  riotous  ones  kept  their  ground,  and  showed 
symptoms  of  mischief,  and  as  if  they  were  resolved  to  do  some- 
thing. 

The  king  returned  to  his  lords,  and  asked  them  what  should 
next  be  done.  He  was  advised  to  make  for  the  fields;  for  the 
mayor  said  "that  to  retreat  or  fly  would  be  of  no  avail.  It  is 
proper  we  should  act  thus,  for  I  reckon  that  we  shall  very  soon 
receive  assistance  from  London,  that  is,  from  our  good  friends 
who  are  prepared  and  armed,  with  all  their  servants  in  their 
houses."  While  things  remained  in  this  state,  several  ran  to 
London,  and  cried  out,  "They  are  killing  the  king!  they  are  kill- 
ing the  king  and  our  mayor!"  Upon  this  alarm,  every  man  of 
the  king's  party  sallied  out  towards  Smithfield,  and  to  the  fields 
whither  the  king  had  retreated;  and  there  were  instantly  col- 
lected from  seven  to  eight  thousand  men  in  arms. 

Among  the  first,  came  sir  Robert  KnoUes  and  sir  Perducas 
d'Albreth,  well  attended;  and  several  of  the  aldermen,  with  up- 
wards of  six  hundred  men-at-arms,  and  a  powerful  man  of  the 
city  called  Nicholas  Bramber,  the  king's  draper,  bringing  with 
him  a  large  force,  who,  as  they  came  up,  ranged  themselves  in 
order,  on  foot,  on  each  side  of  him.  The  rebels  were  drawn  up 
opposite  them:  they  had  the  king's  banners,  and  showed  as  if 


96  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

they  intended  to  maintain  their  ground  by  offering  combat.  The 
king  created  three  knights:  sir  William  Walworth,  mayor  of 
London,  sir  John  Standwich,  and  sir  Nicholas  Bramber.  The 
lords  began  to  converse  among  themselves,  saying,  "What  shall 
we  do?  We  see  our  enemies,  who  would  willingly  have  murdered 
us  if  they  had  gained  the  upper  hand."  Sir  Robert  KnoUes  ad- 
vised immediately  to  fall  on  them  and  slay  them;  but  the  king 
would  not  consent,  saying,  "I  will  not  have  you  act  thus:  you 
shall  go  and  demand  from  them  my  banners:  we  shall  see  how 
they  will  behave  when  you  make  this  demand;  for  I  will  have 
them  by  fair  or  foul  meaijs." 

"It  is  a  good  thought,"  replied  the  earl  of  Salisbury. 

The  new  knights  were  therefore  sent,  who,  on  approaching, 
made  signs  for  them  not  to  shoot,  as  they  wished  to  speak  with 
them.  When  they  had  come  near  enough  to  be  heard,  they  said, 
"Now  attend:  the  king  orders  you  to  send  back  his  banners,  and 
we  hope  he  will  have  mercy  on  you."  The  banners  were  directly 
given  up,  and  brought  to  the  king.  It  was  then  ordered,  under 
pain  of  death,  that  all  those  who  had  obtained  the  king's  letters 
should  dehver  them  up.  Some  did  so;  but  not  all.  The  king, 
on  receiving  them,  had  them  torn  in  their. presence.  You  must 
know  that  from  the  instant  when  the  king's  banners  were  sur- 
rendered, these  fellows  kept  no  order;  but  the  greater  part,  throw- 
ing their  bows  to  the  ground,  took  to  their  heels  and  returned  to 
London. 

Sir  Robert  Knolles  was  in  a  violent  rage  that  they  were  not 
attacked,  and  the  whole  of  them  slain;  but  the  king  would  not 
consent  to  it,  saying,  he  would  have  ample  revenge  on  them, 
which  in  truth  he  afterwards  had. 

Thus  did  these  people  disperse,  and  run  away  on  all  sides.  The 
king,  the  lords,  and  the  army  returned  in  good  array  to  London, 
to  their  great  joy.  The  king  immediately  took  the  road  to  the 
Wardrobe,  to  visit  the  princess  his  mother,  who  had  remained 
there  two  days  and  two  nights  under  the  greatest  fears,  as  indeed 


JEAN  FROISSART  97 

she  had  cause.  On  seeing  the  king  her  son,  she  was  mightily  re- 
joiced, and  said: 

"Ha,  ha,  fair  son,  what  pain  and  anguish  have  I  not  suffered 
for  you  this  day  I" 

"Certainly,  madam,"  replied  the  king,  "I  am  well  assured  of 
that;  but  now  rejoice  and  thank  God,  for  it  behoves  us  to  praise 
him,  as  I  have  this  day  regained  my  inheritance,  and  the  king- 
dom of  England,  which  I  had  lost." 

The  king  remained  the  whole  day  with  his  mother.  The  lords 
retired  to  their  own  houses.  A  proclamation  was  made  through 
all  the  streets,  that  every  person  who  was  not  an  inhabitant  of 
London,  and  who  had  not  resided  there  for  a  whole  year,  should 
instantly  depart;  for  that,  if  there  were  any  found  of  a  contrary 
description  on  Sunday  morning  at  sunrise,  they  would  be  arrested 
as  traitors  to  the  king,  and  have  their  heads  cut  off.  After  this 
proclamation  had  been  heard,  no  one  dared  to  infringe  it;  but 
all  departed  instantly  to  their  homes,  quite  discomfited.  John 
Ball  and  Jack  Straw  were  found  hidden  in  an  old  ruin,  thinking 
to  steal  away;  but  this  they  could  not  do,  for  they  were  betrayed 
by  their  own  men.  The  king  and  the  lords  were  well  pleased  with 
their  seizure:  their  heads  were  cut  off,  as  was  that  of  Tyler,  and 
fixed  on  London  bridge,  in  the  place  of  those  gallant  men  whom 
they  beheaded  on  the  Thursday.  The  news  of  this  was  sent 
through  the  neighbouring  counties,  that  those  might  hear  of  it 
who  were  on  their  way  to  London,  according  to  the  orders  these 
rebels  had  sent  to  them:  upon  which  they  instantly  returned  to 
their  homes,  without  daring  to  advance  further. 


98  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

.     EDWARD  HYDE,  LORD  CLARENDON 

i6og-i674 
THE  KING'S  FLIGHT 

[From  the  History  of  the  Rebellion  (begun  in  1646;  published  in  1702- 
1704).  Out  of  a  disastrous  defeat  at  the  Battle  of  Worcester  (1651) 
Charles  the  Second  slipped  through  Cromwell's  hands,  and  after  weeks 
of  wandering  escaped  into  France.] 

They  of  the  King's  friends  in  Flanders,  France,  and  Holland,  who 
had  not  been  permitted  to  attend  upon  his  majesty  in  Scotland, 
were  much  exalted  with  the  news  of  his  being  entered  Eng- 
land with  a  powerful  army,  and  being  possessed  of  Worcester, 
which  made  all  men  prepare  to  make  haste  thither.  But  they 
were  confounded  with  the  assurance  of  that  fatal  day,  and  more 
confounded  with  the  various  reports  of  the  person  of  the  King; 
of  his  being  found  amongst  the  dead;  of  his  being  prisoner;  and 
all  those  imaginations  which  naturally  attend  upon  such  unpros- 
perous  events.  Many  who  had  made  escapes  arrived  every  day 
in  France,  Flanders,  and  in  Holland,  but  knew  no  more  what  was 
become  of  the  King  than  they  did  who  had  not  been  in  England. 
And  the  only  comfort  any  of  them  brought  was,  that  he  was 
amongst  those  who  fled,  and  some  of  them  had  seen  him  that 
evening  many  miles  out  of  Worcester.  This  unsteady  degree  of 
hope  tormented  them  very  long;  sometimes  they  heard  he  was 
at  the  Hague  with  his  sister,  which  was  occasioned  by  the  arrival 
of  the  duke  of  Buckingham  in  Holland;  and  it  was  thought  good 
policy  to  pubhsh  that  the  King  himself  was  landed,  that  the 
search  after  him  in  England  might  be  discontinued.  But  it 
was  quickly  known  that  he  was  not  there,  nor  in  any  place  on 
that  side  the  sea.  And  this  anxiety  of  mind  disquieted  the  hearts 
of  all  honest  men  during  that  whole  month  of  September  (for  the 
action  was  upon  the  third  of  that  month)  and  all  November 
[October].  About  the  beginning  of  December  [end  of  October] 
his  majesty  was  known  to  be  at  Rouen;  where  he  made  himself 


EDWARD  HYDE,  LORD  CLARENDON  99 

known,  and  stayed  some  days  to  make  clothes,  and  from  thence 
gave  notice  to  the  Queen  of  his  arrival. 

It  is  great  pity  that  there  was  never  a  journal  made  of  that 
miraculous  deliverance,  in  which  there  might  be  seen  so  many 
visible  impressions  of  the  immediate  hand  of  God.  When  the 
darkness  of  the  night  was  over,  after  the  King  had  cast  himself 
into  that  wood,  he  discerned  another  man,  who  had  gotten  upon 
an  oak,  who  was  in  that  wood,  near  the  place  where  the  King  had 
rested  himself,  and  had  slept  soundly.  The  man  upon  the  tree 
had  first  seen  the  ELing,  and  knew  him,  and  came  down  from  the 
tree  to  him,  and  was  known  to  the  King,  being  a  gentleman  of 
the  neighbour  county  of  Staffordshire,  who  had  served  his  late 
majesty  during  the  war,  and  had  now  been  one  of  the  few  who  re- 
sorted to  the  King  after  his  coming  to  Worcester.  His  name  was 
Carelesse,  who  had  had  a  command  of  foot,  above  the  degree  of  a 
captain,  under  the  lord  Loughborough.  He  persuaded  the  -King, 
since  it  could  not  be  safe  for  him  to  go  out  of  the  wood,  and  that 
as  soon  as  it  should  be  fully  light  the  wood  itself  would  probably 
be  visited  by  those  of  the  country,  who  would  be  searching  to 
find  those  whom  they  might  make  prisoners,  that  he  would  get 
up  into  that  tree  where  he  had  been,  where  the  boughs  were  so 
thick  with  leaves,  that  a  man  would  not  be  discovered  there  with- 
out a  narrower  inquiry  than  people  usually  make  in  places  which 
they  do  not  suspect.  The  King  thought  it  good  counsel,  and 
with  the  other's  help  cHmbed  into  the  tree,  and  then  helped  his 
companion  to  ascend  after  him;  where  they  sat  all  that  day,  and 
securely  saw  many  who  came  purposely  into  the  wood  to  look 
after  them,  and  heard  all  their  discourse,  how  they  would  use  the 
King  himself  if  they  could  take  him.  This  wood  was  either  in  or 
upon  the  borders  of  Staffordshire;  and  though  there  was  a  high- 
way near  one  side  of  it,  where  the  King  had  entered  into  it,  yet  it 
was  large,  and  all  other  sides  of  it  opened  amongst  enclosures, 
and  it  pleased  God  that  Carelesse  was  not  unacquainted  with  the 
neighbour  villages.    And  it  was  part  of  the  King's  good  fortune 


lOO  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

that  this  gentleman  was  a  Roman  Catholic,  and  thereby  was  ac- 
quainted with  those  of  that  profession  of  all  degrees:  and  it  must 
never  be  denied  that  those  of  that  faith,  that  is,  some  of  them, 
had  a  very  great  share  in  his  majesty's  preservation. 

The  day  being  spent  in  the  tree,  it  was  not  in  the  King's  power 
to  forget  that  he  had  lived  two  days  with  eating  very  httle,  and 
two  nights  with  as  little  sleep;  so  that  when  the  night  came  he 
was  willing  to  make  some  provision  for  both:  so  that  he  resolved, 
with  the  advice  and  assistance  of  his  companion,  to  leave  his 
blessed  tree;  and  so  when  the  night  was  dark  they  walked  through 
the  wood  into  those  enclosures  which  were  farthest  from  any 
highway,  and  making  a  shift  to  get  over  hedges  and  ditches, 
and  after  walking  at  least  eight  or  nine  miles,  which  were  the 
more  grievous  to  the  King  by  the  weight  of  his  boots,  (for  he 
could  not  put  them  off,  when  he  cut  off  his  hair,  for  want  of 
shoes,)  before  morning  they  came  to  a  poor  cottage,  the  owner 
whereof,  being  a  Catholic,  was  known  to  Carelesse. 

He  was  called  up,  and  as  soon  as  he  knew  one  of  them  he  easily 
concluded  in  what  condition  they  both  were,  and  presently  car- 
ried them  into  a  Httle  barn  full  of  hay,  which  was  a  better  lodging 
than  he  had  for  himself.  But  when  they  were  there,  and  had  con- 
ferred with  their  host  of  the  news  and  temper  of  the  country,  it 
was  resolved  that  the  danger  would  be  the  greater  if  they  stayed 
together;  and  therefore  that  Carelesse  should  presently  be  gone, 
and  should  within  two  days  send  an  honest  man  to  the  King  to 
guide  him  to  some  other  place  of  security;  and  in  the  mean  time 
his  majesty  should  stay  upon  the  hay-mow.  The  poor  man  had 
nothing  for  him  to  eat,  but  promised  him  good  buttermilk  the 
next  morning;  and  so  he  was  once  more  left  alone,  his  compan- 
ion, how  weary  soever,  departing  from  him  before  day;  the  poor 
man  of  the  house  knowing  no  more  than  that  he  was  a  friend  of 
the  captain's,  and  one  of  those  who  had  escaped  from  Worcester. 

The  King  slept  very  well  in  his  lodging,  till  the  time  that  his 
host  brought  him  a  piece  of  bread  and  a  great  pot  of  buttermilk, 


EDWARD  HYDE,  LORD  CLAREl^DON  ipi 


which  he  thought  the  best  food  he  had  ever  eaten.  The  poor 
man  spoke  very  intelhgently  to  him  of  the  country,  and  of  the 
people  who  were  well  and  ill  affected  to  the  King,  and  of  the  great 
fear  and  terror  that  possessed  the  hearts  of  those  who  were  best 
affected.  He  told  him  that  he  himself  hved  by  his  daily  labour, 
and  that  what  he  had  brought  him  was  the  fare  he  and  his  wife 
had;  and  that  he  feared  if  he  should  endeavour  to  procure  better 
it  might  draw  suspicion  upon  him,  and  people  might  be  apt  to 
think  he  had  somebody  with  him  that  was  not  of  his  own  family; 
however,  if  he  would  have  him  get  some  meat  he  would  do  it,  but 
if  he  could  bear  this  hard  diet,  he  should  have  enough  of  the  milk, 
and  some  of  the  butter  that  was  made  with  it.  The  King  was 
satisfied  with  his  reason,  and  would  not  run  the  hazard  for  a 
change  of  diet;  desired  only  the  man  that  he  might  have  his 
company  as  often  and  as  much  as  he  could  give  it  him;  there 
being  the  same  reason  against  the  poor  man's  discontinuing  his 
labour  as  the  alteration  of  his  fare.  • 

After  he  had  rested  upon  this  hay-mow  and  fed  upon  this  diet 
two  days  and  two  nights,  in  the  evening  before  the  third  night 
another  fellow,  a  Uttle  above  the  condition  of  his  host,  came  to 
the  house,  sent  from  Carelesse,  to  conduct  the  King  to  another 
house,  more  out  of  any  road  near  which  any  part  of  the  army  was 
Hke  to  march.  It  was  above  twelve  miles  that  he  was  to  go,  and 
was  to  use  the  same  caution  he  had  done  the  first  night,  not  to  go 
in  any  common  road;  which  his  guide  knew  well  how  to  avoid. 
Here  he  new  dressed  himself,  changing  clothes  with  his  landlord, 
and  putting  on  those  which  he  usually  wore:  he  had  a  great  mind 
to  have  kept  his  own  shirt,  but  he  considered  that  men  are  not 
sooner  discovered  by  any  mark  in  disguises  than  by  having  fine 
linen  in  ill  clothes;  and  so  he  parted  with  his  shirt  too,  and  took 
the  same  his  poor  host  had  then  on. 

Though  he  had  foreseen  that  he  must  leave  his  boots,  and  his 
landlord  had  taken  the  best  care  he  could  to  provide  an  old  pair 
of  shoes,  yet  they  were  not  easy  to  him  when  he  first  put  them  on, 


J.92  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

and  in  a  short  time  after  grew  very  grievous  to  him.  In  this 
equipage  he  set  out  from  his  first  lodging  in  the  beginning  of  the 
night,  under  the  conduct  of  his  comrade,  who  guided  him  the 
nearest  way,  crossing  over  hedges  and  ditches,  that  they  might 
be  in  least  danger  of  meeting  passengers.  This  was  so  grievous  a 
march,  and  he  was  so  tired,  that  he  was  even  ready  to  despair, 
and  to  prefer  being  taken,  and  suffered  to  rest,  before  purchasing 
his  safety  at  that  price.  His  shoes  had  after  the  walking  a  few 
miles  hurt  him  so  much  that  he  had  thrown  them  away,  and 
walked  the  rest  of  the  way  in  his  ill  stockings,  which  were  quickly 
worn  out;  and  his  feet,  with  the  thorns  in  getting  over  hedges, 
and  with  the  stones  in  other  places,  were  so  hurt  and  wounded, 
that  he  many  times  cast  himself  upon  the  ground,  with  a  desper- 
ate and  obstinate  resolution  to  rest  there  till  the  morning,  that  he 
might  shift  with  less  torment,  what  hazard  soever  he  run.  But 
his  stout  guide  still  prevailed  with  him  to  make  a  new  attempt, 
'Sometimes  promising  that  the  way  should  be  better,  and  some- 
times assuring  him  that  he  had  but  little  further  to  go:  and,  in 
this  distress  and  perplexity,  before  the  morning  [Sept.  6]  they 
arrived  at  the  house  designed,  which  though  it  was  better  than 
that  which  he  had  left,  his  lodging  was  still  in  the  barn,  upon 
straw  instead  of  hay,  a  place  being  made  as  easy  in  it  as  the 
expectation  of  a  guest  could  dispose  it. 

Here  he  had  such  meat  and  porridge  as  such  people  use  to  have, 
with  which,  but  especially  with  the  butter  and  the  cheese,  he 
thought  himself  well  feasted;  and  took  the  best  care  he  could  to 
be  supplied  with  other,  little  better,  shoes  and  stockings:  and 
after  his  feet  were  enough  recovered  that  he  could  go,  he  was  con- 
ducted from  thence  to  another  poor  house,  within  such  a  dis- 
tance as  put  him  not  to  much  trouble:  for  having  not  yet  in  his 
thought  which  way,  or  by  what  means,  to  make  his  escape,  all 
that  was  designed  was  only  by  shifting  from  one  house  to  another 
to  avoid  discovery;  and  being  now  in  that  quarter  which  was 
more  inhabited  by  the  Roman  Catholics  than  most  other  parts 


EDWARD  HYDE,  LORD  CLARENDON  103 

in  England,  he  was  led  from  one  to  another  of  that  persuasion, 
and  concealed  with  great  fideHty.  But  he  then  observed  that 
he  was  never  carried  to  any  gentleman's  house,  though  that 
country  was  full  of  them,  but  only  to  poor  houses  of  poor  men, 
which  only  yielded  him  rest,  with  very  unpleasant  sustenance; 
whether  there  was  more  danger  in  those  better  houses,  in 
regard  of  the  resort  and  the  many  servants,  or  whether  the 
owners  of  great  estates  were  the  owners  likewise  of  more  fears 
and  apprehensions. 

Within  few  days,  a  very  honest  and  discreet  person,  one 
Mr.  Hurlestone  [Huddlestone]  a  Benedictine  monk,  who  attended 
the  service  of  the  CathoUcs  in  those  parts,  came  to  him,  sent  by 
Carelesse,  and  was  a  very  great  assistance  and  comfort  to  him. 
And  when  the  places  to  which  he  carried  him  were  at  too  great  a 
distance  to  walk,  he  provided  him  a  horse,  and  more  proper  habit 
than  the  rags  he  wore.  This  man  told  him  that  the  lord  Wilmott 
lay  concealed  likewise  in  a  friend's  house  of  his;  which  his  maj- 
esty was  very  glad  of,  and  wished  him  to  contrive  some  means 
how  they  might  speak  together;  which  the  other  easily  did,  and 
within  a  night  or  two  brought  them  into  one  place  [Mr.  Whit- 
greave's,  at  Moseley].  Wilmott  told  the  King  that  he  had  by 
very  good  fortune  fallen  into  the  house  of  an  honest  gentleman, 
one  Mr.  Lane,  a  person  of  an  excellent  reputation  for  his  fidelity 
to  the  King,  but  of  so  universal  and  general  a  good  name,  that, 
though  he  had  a  son  who  had  been  a  colonel  in  the  King's  service 
during  the  late  war,  and  was  then  upon  his  way  with  men  to 
Worcester  the  very  day  of  the  defeat,  men  of  all  affections  in  the 
country  and  of  all  opinions  paid  the  old  man  a  very  great  respect: 
that  he  had  been  very  civilly  treated  there,  and  that  the  old 
gentleman  had  used  some  diligence  to  find  out  where  the  King 
was,  that  he  might  get  him  to  his  house,  where  he  was  sure  he 
could  conceal  him  till  he  might  contrive  a  full  deliverance.  He 
told  him  he  had  withdrawn  from  that  house,  and  put  himself 
amongst  the  CathoHcs,  in  hope  that  he  might  discover  where  his 


I04  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

majesty  was,  and  having  now  happily  found  him,  advised  him  to 
repair  to  that  house,  which  stood  not  near  any  other  house. 

The  King  inquired  of  the  monk  of  the  reputation  of  this  gentle- 
man, who  told  him  that  he  was  a  gentleman  of  a  fair  estate,  ex- 
ceedingly beloved,  and  the  oldest  justice  of  peace  of  that  county 
of  Stafford;  and  though  he  was  a  very  zealous  Protestant,  yet  he 
lived  with  so  much  civility  and  candour  towards  the  Cathohcs, 
that  they  would  all  trust  him  as  much  as  they  would  do  any  of 
their  own  profession,  and  that  he  could  not  think  of  any  place  of 
so  good  repose  and  security  for  his  majesty  to  repair  to.  The 
King,  who  by  this  time  had  as  good  a  mind  to  eat  well  as  to  sleep, 
liked  the  proposition,  yet  thought  not  fit  to  surprise  the  gentle- 
man, but  sent  Wilmott  thither  again,  to  assure  himself  that  he 
might  be  received  there,  and  was  willing  that  he  should  know 
what  guest  he  received;  which  hitherto  was  so  much  concealed, 
that  none  of  the  houses  where  he  had  yet  been  knew,  or  seemed 
to  suspect,  more  than  that  he  was  one  of  the  King's  party  that 
fled  from  Worcester.  The  monk  carried  him  to  a  house  at  a 
reasonable  distance,  where  he  was  to  expect  an  account  from  the 
lord  Wilmott,  who  returned  very  punctually,  with  as  much  as- 
surance of  welcome  as  he  could  wish.  And  so  they  two  went  to- 
gether to  Mr.  Lane's  house  [Bentley  Hall],  where  the  ELing  found 
he  was  welcome,  and  conveniently  accommodated  in  such  places 
as  in  a  large  house  had  been  provided  to  conceal  the  persons  of 
malignants,  or  to  preserve  goods  of  value  from  being  plundered; 
where  he  lodged  and  eat  very  well,  and  began  to  hope  that  he  was 
in  present  safety.  Wilmott  returned  under  the  care  of  the  monk, 
and  expected  summons  when  any  farther  motion  should  be 
thought  to  be  necessary. 

In  this  station  the  King  remained  in  quiet  and  blessed  security 
many  days,  receiving  every  day  information  of  the  general  con- 
sternation the  kingdom  was  in,  out  of  the  apprehension  that  his 
person  might  fall  into  the  hands  of  his  enemies,  and  of  the  great 
diligence  they  used  in  inquiry  for  him.    He  saw  the  proclamation 


EDWARD  HYDE,  LORD  CLARENDON  105 

that  was  issued  out  and  printed,  in  which  a  thousand  pounds  were 
promised  to  any  man  who  would  deliver  and  discover  the  person 
of  Charies  Steward,  and  the  penalty  of  high  treason  declared 
against  those  who  presumed  to  harbour  or  conceal  him:  by 
which  he  saw  how  much  he  was  beholding  to  all  those  who  were 
faithful  to  him. 

It  was  now  time  to  consider  how  he  might  find  himself  near  the 
sea,  from  whence  he  might  find  some  means  to  transport  himself: 
and  he  was  now  near  the  middle  of  the  kingdom,  saving  that  it 
was  a  little  more  northward,  where  he  was  utterly  unacquainted 
with  all  the  ports  and  with  that  coast.  In  the  west  he  was  best 
acquainted,  and  that  coast  was  most  proper  to  transport  him 
into  France;  to  which  he  was  most  inclined.  Upon  this  matter 
he  communicated  with  those  of  the  family  to  whom  he  was 
known,  that  is,  with  the  old  gentleman  the  father,  a  very  grave 
and  venerable  person,  the  colonel  his  eldest  son,  a  very  plain 
man  in  his  discourse  and  behaviour,  but  of  a  fearless  courage  and 
an  integrity  superior  to  any  temptation,  and  a  daughter  of  the 
house,  of  a  very  good  wit  and  discretion,  and  very  fit  to  bear  any 
part  in  such  a  trust.  It  was  a  benefit,  as  well  as  an  inconvenience, 
in  those  unhappy  times,  that  the  affections  of  all  men  were 
almost  as  well  known  as  their  faces,  by  the  discovery  they  had 
made  of  themselves,  in  those  sad  seasons,  in  many  trials  and 
persecutions :  so  that  men  knew  not  only  the  minds  of  their  next 
neighbours,  and  those  who  inhabited  near  them,  but,  upon 
conference  with  their  friends,  could  choose  fit  houses,  at  any 
distance,  to  repose  themselves  in  securely,  from  one  end  of  the 
kingdom  to  another,  without  trusting  the  hospitahty  of  a 
common  inn :  and  men  were  very  rarely  deceived  in  their  confi- 
dence upon  such  occasions  but  that  the  persons  with  whom  they 
were  at  any  time  could  conduct  them  to  another  house  of  the 
same  affection. 

Mr.  Lane  had  a  niece,  or  very  near  kinswoman,  who  was  mar- 
ried to  a  gentleman,  one  Mr,  Norton,  a  person  of  eight  or  nine 


io6  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

hundred  pounds  per  annum^  who  Uved  within  four  or  five  miles  of 
Bristol,  which  was  at  least  four  or  five  days'  journey  from  the 
place  where  the  King  then  was,  but  a  place  most  to  be  wished  for 
the  King  to  be  in,  because  he  did  not  only  know  all  that  country 
very  well,  but  knew  many  persons  very  well  to  whom  in  an  ex- 
traordinary case  he  durst  make  himself  known.  It  was  hereupon 
resolved  that  Mrs.  Lane  should  visit  this  cousin,  who  was  known 
to  be  of  good  affections,  and  that  she  should  ride  behind  the  King, 
who  was  fitted  with  clothes  and  boots  for  such  a  service,  and  that 
a  servant  of  her  father's,  in  his  livery,  should  wait  upon  her.  A 
good  house  was  easily  pitched  upon  for  the  first  night's  lodging 
where  Wilmott  had  notice  given  him  to  meet.  And  in  this  equip- 
age the  King  begun  his  journey  [Sept.  lo];  the  colonel  keeping 
him  company  at  a  distance,  with  a  hawk  upon  his  fist,  and  two 
or  three  spaniels;  which,  where  there  were  any  fields  at  hand, 
warranted  him  to  ride  out  of  the  way,  keeping  his  company  still 
in  his  eye,  and  not  seeming  to  be  of  it.  And  in  this  manner  they 
came  to  their  first  night's  lodging  [at  Long  Marston] ;  and  they 
need  not  now  to  contrive  to  come  to  their  journey's  end  about 
the  close  of  the  evening,  for  it  was  now  in  the  month  of  October 
[September]  far  advanced,  that  the  long  journeys  they  made 
could  not  be  despatched  sooner.  Here  the  lord  Wilmott  found 
them;  and  their  journeys  being  then  adjusted,  he  was  instructed 
where  he  should  be  every  night:  and  so  they  were  seldom  seen 
together  in  the  journey,  and  rarely  lodged  in  the  same  house  at 
night.  And  in  this  manner  the  colonel  hawked  two  or  three  days, 
till  he  had  brought  them  within  less  than  a  day's  journey  of 
Mr.  Norton's  house,  and  then  he  gave  his  hawk  to  the  lord 
Wilmott,  who  continued  the  journey  in  the  same  exercise. 

There  was  great  care  taken  when  they  came  to  any  house  that 
the  King  might  presently  be  carried  into  some  chamber, 
Mrs.  Lane  declaring  that  he  was  a  neighbour's  son,  whom  his 
father  had  lent  her  to  ride  before  her  in  hope  that  he  would  the 
sooner  recover  from  a  quartan  ague,  with  which  he  had  been 


r 


EDWARD  HYDE,  LORD  CLARENDON  107 

miserably  aflSicted,  and  was  not  yet  free.  And  by  this  artifice 
she  caused  a  good  bed  to  be  still  provided  for  him,  and  the  best 
meat  to  be  sent;  which  she  often  carried  herself,  to  hinder  others 
from  doing  it.  There  was  no  resting  in  any  place  till  they  came  to 
Mr.  Norton's  [at  Abbotsleigh,  Somerset],  nor  any  thing  extra- 
ordinary that  happened  in  the  way,  save  that  they  met  many 
people  every  day  in  the  way  who  were  very  well  known  to  the 
King;  and  the  day  that  they  went  to  Mr.  Norton's  [Sept.  12], 
they  were  necessarily  to  ride  quite  through  the  city  of  Bristol,  a 
place  and  people  the  KLing  had  been  so  well  acquainted  with,  that 
he  could  not  but  send  his  eyes  abroad  to  view  the  great  alter- 
ations which  had  been  made  there  after  his  departure  from 
thence:  and  when  he  rode  near  the  place  where  the  great  fort 
had  stood,  he  could  not  forbear  putting  his  horse  out  of  the  way, 
and  rode,  with  his  mistress  behind  him,  round  about  it. 

They  came  to  Mr.  Norton's  house  sooner  than  usual,  and,  it 
being  on  a  holyday,  they  saw  many  people  about  a  bowling-green 
that  was  before  the  door;  and  the  first  man  the  King  saw  was  a 
chaplain  of  his  own,  who  was  allied  to  the  gentleman  of  the  house, 
and  was  sitting  upon  the  rails  to  see  how  the  bowlers  played.  So 
that  William,  by  which  name  the  King  went,  walked  with  his 
horse  into  the  stable,  until,  his  mistress  could  provide  for  his  re- 
treat. Mrs.  Lane  was  very  welcome  to  her  cousin,  and  was  pres- 
ently conducted  to  her  chamber,  where  she  no  sooner  was  than 
she  lamented  the  condition  of  a  good  youth  who  came  with  her, 
and  whom  she  had  borrowed  of  his  father  to  ride  before  her,  who 
was  very  sick,  being  newly  recovered  of  an  ague;  and  desired  her 
cousin  that  a  chamber  might  be  provided  for  him,  and  a  good 
fire  made:  for  that  he  would  go  early  to  bed,  and  was  not  fit  to 
be  below  stairs.  A  pretty  little  chamber  was  presently  made 
ready,  and  a  fire  prepared,  and  a  boy  sent  into  the  stable  to  call 
William,  and  to  shew  him  his  chamber;  who  was  very  glad  to  be 
there,  freed  from  so  much  company  as  was  below.  Mrs.  Lane 
was  put  to  find  some  excuse  for  making  a  visit  at  that  time  of 


io8  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

the  year,  and  so  many  days'  journey  from  her  father,  and  where 
she  had  never  been  before,  though  the  mistress  of  the  house 
and  she  had  been  bred  together,  and  friends  as  well  as  kindred. 
So  she  pretended  that  she  was,  after  a  little  rest,  to  go  into 
Dorsetshire  to  another  friend. 

When  it  was  supper-time,  there  being  broth  brought  to  the 
table,  Mrs.  Lane  filled  a  Uttle  dish,  and  desired  the  butler,  who 
waited  at  the  table,  to  carry  that  dish  of  porridge  to  WilHam,  and 
to  tell  him  that  he  should  have  some  meat  sent  to  him  presently. 
The  butler  carried  the  porridge  into  the  chamber,  with  a  napkin 
and  spoon  and  bread,  and  spake  kindly  to  the  young  man,  who 
was  willing  to  be  eating.  And  the  butler  looking  narrowly  upon 
him  fell  upon  his  knees,  and  with  tears  told  him  he  was  glad  to 
see  his  majesty.  The  King  was  infinitely  surprised,  yet  recol- 
lected himself  enough  to  laugh  at  the  man,  and  to  ask  him  what 
he  meant.  The  man  had  been  falconer  to  Tom  Jermin,  and  made 
it  appear  that  he  knew  well  enough  to  whom  he  spake,  repeating 
some  particulars  which  the  King  had  not  forgot.  Whereupon 
the  King  conjured  him  not  to  speak  of  what  he  knew,  so  much  as 
to  his  master,  though  he  believed  him  a  very  honest  man.  The 
fellow  promised,  and  faithfully  kept  his  word;  and  the  King  was 
the  better  waited  upon  during  the  time  of  his  abode  there. 

Dr.  Gorges,  the  King's  chaplain,  being  a  gentleman  of  a  good 
family  near  that  place,  and  aUied  to  Mr.  Norton,  supped  with 
them;  and,  being  a  man  of  a  cheerful  conversation,  asked 
Mrs.  Lane  many  questions  concerning  William,  of  whom  he  saw 
she  was  so  careful  by  sending  up  meat  to  him;  how  long  his 
ague  had  been  gone,  and  whether  he  had  purged  since  it  left  him, 
and  the  Hke:  to  which  she  gave  such  answers  as  occurred.  The 
doctor,  from  the  final  prevalence  of  the  ParHament,  had,  as  many 
others  of  that  function  had  done,  declined  his  profession,  and 
pretended  to  study  physic.  As  soon  as  supper  was  done,  out  of 
good  nature,  and  without  telhng  anybody,  he  went  to  see 
William.     The  King  saw  him  coming  into  the  chamber,  and 


EDWARD  HYDE,  LORD  CLARENDON  109 

withdrew  to  the  inside  of  the  bed,  that  he  might  be  farthest  from 
the  candle;  and  the  doctor  came  and  sat  down  by  him,  felt  his 
pulse,  and  asked  him  many  questions,  which  he  answered  in  as 
few  words  as  was  possible,  and  expressing  great  inclination  to  go 
to  his  bed;  to  which  the  doctor  left  him,  and  went  to  Mrs.  Lane, 
and  told  her  that  he  had  been  with  William,  and  that  he  would 
do  well;  and  advised  her  what  she  should  do  if  his  ague  returned. 
And  the  next  morning  the  doctor  went  away,  so  that  the  King 
saw  him  no  more,  of  which  he  was  right  glad. 

The  next  day  the  lord  Wilmott  came  to  the  house  with  his 
hawk  to  see  Mrs.  Lane,  and  so  conferred  with  WilHam;  who  was 
to  consider  what  he  was  to  do.  They  thought  it  necessary  to  rest 
some  days,  till  they  were  informed  what  port  lay  most  convenient 
for  them,  and  what  person  lived  nearest  to  it  upon  whose  fidelity 
they  might  rely:  and  the  King  gave  him  directions  to  inquire 
after  some  persons,  and  some  other  particulars,  of  which  when 
he  should  be  fully  instructed  he  should  return  again  to  him.  In 
the  mean  time  he  lodged  at  a  house  not  far  from  Mr.  Norton's, 
to  which  he  had  been  recommended. 

After  some  days'  stay  here,  and  communication  between  the 
King  and  the  lord  Wilmott  by  letters,  the  King  came  to  know 
that  Colonel  Francis  Windham  lived  within  little  more  than  a 
day's  journey  of  the  place  where  he  was  [at  Trent,  in  Somerset], 
of  which  he  was  very  glad;  for,  besides  the  inclination  he  had  to 
his  elder  brother,  whose  wife  had  been  his  nurse,  this  gentleman  had 
behaved  himself  very  well  during  the  war,  and  had  been  governor 
of  Dunstar  Castle,  where  the  King  had  lodged  when  he  was  in  the 
west.  After  the  end  of  the  war,  and  when  all  other  places  were 
surrendered  in  that  county,  he  likewise  surrendered  that,  upon 
fair  conditions,  and  made  his  peace,  and  afterwards  married  a 
wife  with  a  competent  fortune,  and  lived  quietly  with  her,  without 
any  suspicion  of  having  lessened  his  affection  towards  the  King. 

The  King  sent  Wilmott  to  him,  and  acquainted  him  where 
he  was,  and  that  he  would  gladly  speak  with  him.     It  was  not 


no  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

hard  for  him  to  choose  a  good  place  where  to  meet,  and  there, 
upon  the  day  appointed,  after  the  King  had  taken  his  leave  of 
Mrs.  Lane,  who  remained  with  her  cousin  Norton,  the  King  and 
the  lord  Wilmott  met  the  colonel,  and  in  the  way  encountered 
in  a  town  through  which  they  passed  Mr.  Kirton,  a  servant  of 
the  King's,  who  well  knew  the  lord  Wilmott,  who  had  no  other 
disguise  than  the  hawk,  but  took  no  notice  of  him,  nor  suspected 
the  King  to  be  there;  yet  that  day  made  the  King  more  wary 
of  having  him  in  his  company  upon  the  way.  At  the  place  of 
meeting  they  rested  only  one  night  [at  Castle  Gary],  and  then 
the  King  went  to  the  colonel's  house,  where  he  rested  many 
days,  whilst  colonel  Windham  projected  at  what  place  the  King 
might  embark,  and  how  they  might  procure  a  vessel  to  be  ready 
there;  which  was  not  easy  to  find,  there  being  so  great  caution 
in  all  the  ports,  and  so  great  a  fear  possessing  those  who  were 
honest,  that  it  was  hard  to  procure  any  vessel  that  was  outward 
bound  to  take  in  any  passenger. 

There  was  a  gentleman,  one  Mr.  Ellison,  who  lived  near  Lyme 
in  Dorsetshire,  and  who  was  well  known  to  colonel  Windham, 
having  been  a  captain  in  the  King's  army,  and  was  still  looked 
upon  as  a  very  honest  man.  With  him  the  colonel  consulted  how 
they  might  get  a  vessel  to  be  ready  to  take  in  a  couple  of  gentle- 
men, friends  of  his,  who  were  in  danger  to  be  arrested,  and  trans- 
port them  into  France.  Though  no  man  would  ask  who  the 
persons  were,  yet  every  man  suspected  who  they  were;  at  least 
they  concluded  that  it  was  some  of  Worcester  party. 

Lyme  was  generally  as  maUcious  and  disaffected  a  town  to  the 
King's  interest  as  any  town  in  England  could  be,  yet  there  was 
in  it  a  master  of  a  bark  of  whose  honesty  this  captain  was  very 
confident.  This  man  was  lately  returned  from  France,  and  had 
unladen  his  vessel,  when  Ellison  asked  him  when  he  would  make 
another  voyage,  and  he  answered  as  soon  as  he  could  get  loading 
for  his  ship.  The  other  asked,  whether  he  would  undertake  to 
carry  over  a  couple  of  gentlemen,  and  land  them  in  France,  if 


EDWARD  HYDE,  LORD  CLARENDON  iii 

he  might  be  as  well  paid  for  his  voyage  as  he  used  to  be  when  he 
was  freighted  by  the  merchants;  in  conclusion,  he  told  him  he 
should  receive  fifty  pounds  for  his  fare.  The  large  recompense 
had  that  effect  that  the  man  undertook  it,  though  he  said  he  must 
make  his  provision  very  secretly;  for  that  he  might  be  well 
suspected  for  going  to  sea  again  without  being  freighted  after 
he  was  so  newly  returned.  Colonel  Windham,  being  advertised 
of  this,  came  together  with  the  lord  Wilmott  to  the  captain's 
house,  from  whence  the  lord  and  the  captain  rode  to  a  house  near 
Lyme,  where  the  master  of  the  bark  met  them;  and  the  lord  Wil- 
mott being  satisfied  with  the  discourse  of  the  man,  and  his  wari- 
ness and  foreseeing  suspicions  which  would  arise,  it  was  resolved 
that  on  such  a  night,  which  upon  consideration  of  the  tides  was 
agreed  upon,  the  man  should  draw  out  his  vessel  from  the  pier, 
and  being  at  sea  should  come  to  such  a  point  about  a  mile  from 
the  town,  where  his  ship  should  remain  upon  the  beach  when  the 
water  was  gone;  which  would  take  it  off  again  about  the  break 
of  day  the  next  morning. 

There  was  very  near  that  point,  even  in  the  view  of  it,  a  small 
inn,  kept  by  a  man  who  was  reputed  honest,  to  which  the  cava- 
liers of  the  country  often  resorted;  and  London  road  passed  that 
way,  so  that  it  was  seldom  without  resort.  Into  that  inn  the 
two  gentlemen  were  to  come  in  the  beginning  of  the  night,  that 
they  might  put  themselves  on  board.  And  all  things  being  thus 
concerted,  and  good  earnest  given  to  the  master,  the  lord  Wil- 
mott and  the  colonel  returned  to  the  colonel's  house,  above  a 
day's  journey  from  the  place,  the  captain  imdertaking  every  day 
to  look  that  the  master  should  provide,  and  if  any  thing  fell  out 
contrary  to  expectation,  to  give  the  colonel  notice  at  such  a  place, 
where  they  intended  the  King  should  be  the  day  before  he  was  to 
embark. 

The  King,  being  satisfied  with  these  preparations,  came  at 
the  time  appointed  to  that  house  [at  Charmouth],  where  he  was 
to  hear  that  all  went  as  it  ought  to  do;  of  which  he  received 


112  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

assurance  from  the  captain,  who  found  that  the  man  had  honestly- 
put  his  provisions  on  board,  and  had  his  company  ready,  which 
were  but  four  men,  and  that  the  vessel  should  be  drawn  out  that 
night:  so  that  it  was  fit  for  the  two  persons  to  come  to  the  afore- 
said inn;  and  the  captain  conducted  them  within  sight  of  it, 
and  then  went  to  his  own  house,  not  distant  a  mile  from  it;  the 
colonel  remaining  still  at  the  house  where  they  had  lodged  the 
night  before,  till  he  might  hear  the  news  of  their  being  embarked. 

They  found  many  passengers  in  the  inn;  and  so  were  to  be 
contented  with  an  ordinary  chamber,  which  they  did  not  intend 
to  sleep  long  in,  but  as  soon  as  there  appeared  any  light,  Wil- 
mott  went  out  to  discover  the  bark,  of  which  there  was  no 
appearance.  In  a  word,  the  sun  rose,  and  nothing  hke  a  ship 
in  view.  They  sent  to  the  captain,  who  was  as  much  amazed, 
and  he  sent  to  the  town;  and  his  servant  could  not  find  the 
master  of  the  bark,  which  was  still  in  the  pier.  They  suspected 
the  captain,  and  the  captain  suspected  the  master.  However, 
it  being  past  ten  of  the  clock,  they  concluded  it  was  not  fit  for 
them  to  stay  longer  there,  and  so  they  mounted  their  horses 
again  to  return  to  the  house  where  they  had  left  the  colonel,  who 
they  knew  resolved  to  stay  there  till  he  were  assured  that  they 
were  gone. 

The  truth  of  the  disappointment  was  this.  The  man  meant 
honestly,  and  had  made  all  things  ready  for  his  departure;  and 
the  night  he  was  to  go  out  with  his  vessel  he  had  stayed  in  his 
own  house,  and  slept  two  or  three  hours;  and  the  time  of  the 
tide  being  come,  that  it  was  necessary  to  be  on  board,  he  took 
out  of  a  cupboard  some  Hnen  and  other  things  which  he  used  to 
carry  with  him  to  sea.  His  wife  had  observed  that  he  had  been 
for  some  days  fuller  of  thoughts  than  he  used  to  be,  and  that  he 
had  been  speaking  with  seamen  who  used  to  go  with  him,  and 
that  some  of  them  had  carried  provisions  on  board  the  bark;  of 
which  she  had  asked  her  husband  the  reason;  who  had  told  her 
that  he  was  promised  freight  speedily,  and  therefore  he  would 


EDWARD  HYDE,  LORD  CLARENDON  113 

make  all  things  ready.  She  was  sure  that  there  was  yet  no 
lading  in  the  ship,  and  therefore,  when  she  saw  her  husband  take 
all  those  materials  with  him,  which  was  a  sure  sign  that  he  meant 
to  go  to  sea,  and  it  being  late  in  night,  she  shut  the  door,  and 
swore  he  should  not  go  out  of  the  house.  He  told  her  he  must 
go,  and  was  engaged  to  go  to  sea  that  night;  for  which  he  should 
be  well  paid.  His  wife  told  him  she  was  sure  he  was  doing  some- 
what that  would  undo  him,  and  she  was  resolved  he  should  not 
go  out  of  his  house;  and  if  he  should  persist  in  it,  she  would  call 
the  neighbours,  and  carry  him  before  the  mayor  to  be  examined, 
that  the  truth  might  be  found  out.  The  poor  man,  thus  mastered 
by  the  passion  and  violence  of  his  wife,  was  forced  to  yield  to  her, 
that  there  might  be  no  farther  noise;  and  so  went  into  his  bed. 

And  it  was  very  happy  that  the  King's  jealousy  hastened  him 
from  that  inn.  It  was  the  solemn  fast  day,  which  was  observed 
in  those  times  principally  to  inflame  the  people  against  the  King 
and  all  those  who  were  loyal  to  him;  and  there  was  a  chapel  in 
that  village  and  over  against  that  inn,  where  a  weaver,  who  had 
been  a  soldier,  used  to  preach,  and  utter  all  the  villainy  imagin- 
able against  the  order  of  government:  and  he  was  then  in  the 
chapel  preaching  to  his  congregation  when  the  King  went  from 
thence,  and  telling  the  people  that  Charles  Steward  was  lurking 
somewhere  in  that  country,  and  that  they  would  merit  from  God 
Almighty  if  they  could  find  him  out.  The  passengers  who  had 
lodged  in  the  inn  that  night  had,  as  soon  as  they  were  up,  sent 
for  a  smith  to  visit  their  horses,  it  being  a  hard  frost.  The 
smith,  when  he  had  done  what  he  was  sent  for,  according  to  the 
custom  of  that  people,  examined  the  feet  of  the  other  two  horses, 
to  find  more  work.  When  he  had  observed  them,  he  told  the 
host  of  the  house  that  one  of  those  horses  had  travelled  far,  and 
that  he  was  sure  that  his  four  shoes  had  been  made  in  four  several 
counties;  which,  whether  his  skill  was  able  to  discover  or  no, 
was  very  true.  The  smith  going  to  the  sermon  told  this  story  to 
some  of  his  neighbours,  and  so  it  came  to  the  ears  of  the  preacher 
8 


114  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

when  his  sermon  was  done.  And  immediately  he  sent  for  an 
officer,  and  searched  the  inn,  and  inquired  for  those  horses; 
and  being  informed  that  they  were  gone,  he  caused  horses  to  be 
sent  to  follow  them,  and  to  make  inquiry  after  the  two  men  who 
rode  those  horses,  and  positively  declared  that  one  of  them  was 
Charles  Steward. 

When  they  came  again  to  the  colonel,  they  presently  concluded 
that  they  were  to  make  no  longer  stay  in  those  parts,  nor  any 
more  to  endeavour  to  find  a  ship  upon  that  coast;  and  so,  with- 
out farther  delay,  they  rode  back  to  the  colonel's  house,  where 
they  arrived  in  the  night. ^  Then  they  resolved  to  make  their 
next  attempt  more  southward,  in  Hampshire  and  Sussex,  where 
colonel  Windham  had  no  interest.  And  they  must  pass  through 
all  Wiltshire  before  they  came  thither,  which  would  require 
many  days'  journey:  and  they  were  first  to  consider  what  honest 
houses  there  were  in  or  near  the  way,  where  they  might  securely 
repose;  and  it  was  thought  very  dangerous  for  the  King  to 
ride  through  any  great  town,  as  Salisbury  or  Winchester,  which 
might  probably  he  in  their  way. 

There  was  between  that  and  Sahsbury  a  very  honest  gentle- 
man, colonel  Robert  Phillipps,  a  younger  brother  of  a  very  good 
family,  which  had  always  been  very  loyal,  and  he  had  served  the 
King  during  the  war.  The  King  was  resolved  to  trust  him;  and 
so  sent  the  lord  Wilmott  to  a  place  from  whence  he  might  send 
to  Mr.  Phillipps  to  come  to  him,  and  when  he  had  spoken  with 
him,  Mr.  Philhpps  should  come  to  the  King,  and  Wilmott  was 
to  stay  in  such  a  place  as  they  two  should  agree.  Mr.  Phillipps 
accordingly  came  to  the  colonel's  house,  which  he  could  do  with- 
out suspicion,  they  being  nearly  allied.  The  ways  were  very 
full  of  soldiers,  which  were  sent  now  from  the  army  to  their 
quarters;  and  many  regiments  of  horse  and  foot  were  assigned 
for  the  west,  of  which  Desborough  was  major  general.    These 

^  [They  were  that  night  at  Broad  Windsor,  and  the  following  night,  Sept.  24, 
again  at  Trent,  where  he  remained  nearly  a  fortnight.] 


EDWARD  HYDE,  LORD  CLARENDON  115 

marches  were  like  to  last  for  many  days,  and  it  would  not  be  fit 
for  the  King  to  stay  so  long  in  that  place.  Thereupon  he  re- 
sorted to  his  old  security  of  taking  a  woman  behind  him,  a  kins- 
woman of  colonel  Windham,  whom  he  carried  in  that  manner  to  a 
place  not  far  from  Salisbury,  to  which  colonel  Phillipps  conducted 
him.  And  in  this  journey  he  passed  through  the  middle  of  a 
regiment  of  horse,  and  presently  after  met  Desborough  walking 
down  a  hill  with  three  or  four  men  with  him,  who  had  lodged  in 
Salisbury  the  night  before;  all  that  road  being  full  of  soldiers. 

The  next  day,  upon  the  plains.  Dr.  Hinchman,  one  of  the  preb- 
ends of  SaUsbury,  met  the  King,  the  lord  Wilmott  and  colonel 
PhilHpps  then  leaving  him  to  go  to  the  sea-coast  to  find  a  vessel 
[Oct.  6],  the  doctor  conducting  the  King  to  a  place  called  Heale, 
three  miles  from  SaHsbury,  belonging  then  to  sergeant  Hyde, 
who  was  afterwards  Chief  Justice  of  the  King's  Bench,  and  then 
in  the  possession  of  the  widow  of  his  elder  brother,  a  house  that 
stood  alone,  from  neighbours  and  from  any  highway;  where 
coming  in  late  in  the  evening,  he  supped  with  some  gentlemen 
who  accidentally  were  in  the  house,  which  could  not  well  be 
avoided.  But  the  next  morning  he  went  early  from  thence,  as 
if  he  had  continued  his  journey;  and  the  widow,  being  trusted 
with  the  knowledge  of  her  guest,  sent  her  servants  out  of  the 
way,  and  at  an  hour  appointed  received  him  again,  and  accom- 
modated him  in  a  little  room,  which  had  been  made  since  the 
beginning  of  the  troubles  (the  seat  always  belonging  to  a  malig- 
nant family)  for  the  concealment  of  dehnquents.  And  here  he 
lay  concealed,  without  the  knowledge  of  some  gentlemen  who 
Hved  in  the  house  and  of  others  who  daily  resorted  thither,  for 
many  days,  the  widow  herself  only  attending  him  with  such 
things  as  were  necessary,  and  bringing  him  such  letters  as  the 
doctor  received  from  the  lord  Wilmott  and  colonel  Phillipps. 

A  vessel  being  at  last  provided  upon  the  coast  of  Sussex,  and 
notice  thereof  sent  to  Dr.  Hinchman,  he  sent  to  the  King  to 
meet  him  at  Stonedge,  upon  the  plains,  three  miles  from  Heale, 


ii6  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

whither  the  widow  took  care  to  direct  him;  and  being  there  met, 
he  attended  him  to  the  place,  where  colonel  Phillipps  received 
him:  who  the  next  day  [Oct.  13]  delivered  him  to  the  lord 
Wilmott,  who  went  with  him  to  a  house  in  Sussex  [the  house  of 
Mr.  Symons],  recommended  by  colonel  Gunter  [Hambledon, 
Hampshire],  a  gentleman  of  that  country,  who  had  served  the 
King  in  the  war;  who  met  him  there,  and  had  provided  a  little 
bark  at  Brightemsted  [Brighton],  a  small  fisher-town,  where 
[at  Shoreham]  he  went  early  on  board,  and  by  God's  blessing 
arrived  safely  in  Normandy  [at  Fecamp]. 

The  earl  of  Southampton,  who  was  then  at  his  house  at  Titch- 
field  in  Hampshire,  and  had  been  advertised  of  the  King's  being 
in  the  west  and  of  his  missing  his  passage  at  Lyme,  sent  a  trusty 
gentleman  to  those  faithful  persons  in  the  country  who  he 
thought  were  most  like  to  be  employed  for  his  escape  if  he  came 
into  those  parts,  to  let  them  know  that  he  had  a  ship  ready,  and 
if  the  King  came  to  him  he  should  be  safe;  which  advertisement 
came  to  the  King  the  night  before  he  embarked,  and  when  his 
vessel  was  ready.  But  his  majesty  ever  acknowledged  the  obli- 
gation with  great  kindness,  he  being  the  only  person  of  that  con- 
dition who  had  the  courage  to  solicit  such  a  danger,,  though  all 
men  heartily  wished  his  dehverance.  It  was  about  the  end  of 
November  that  the  King  landed  in  Normandy,  in  a  small  creek; 
from  whence  he  got  to  Rouen,  and  then  gave  notice  to  the  Queen 
of  his  arrival,  and  freed  his  subjects  in  all  places  from  their 
dismal  apprehensions. 


THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY  117 

THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY 

i8oo-i85g 

THE  CAPTURE  OF  MONMOUTH 

[From  the  History  of  England,  chapter  VI  (1848). 

James,  Duke  of  Monmouth,  na'tural  son  of  Charles  the  Second,  was 
weak  and  profligate  but  popular  because  of  his  beauty  and  of  his  re- 
puted bravery  in  putting  down  a  rising  of  the  Covenanters  in  the  west 
of  Scotland  (1679).  He  was  chosen  by  Charles  as  heir  to  the  throne, 
that  the  succession  might  fall  neither  to  WilUam  of  Orange  nor  to 
James,  Duke  of  York,  the  King's  brother.  Though  he  was  supported 
in  this  by  the  Anti-Catholic  party  opposed  to  the  Duke  of  York,  Charles 
was  forced  by  political  necessity  to  banish  both  York  and  Monmouth. 
After  Charles'  death  in  1685  when  the  Duke  of  York  had  become  James 
the  Second,  Monmouth  landed  at  Lyme  in  the  southwest,  and  with  an 
army  of  six  thousand  men  flung  himself  in  a  night  attack  upon  the 
royal  forces  under  Feversham  and  Churchill,  encamped  on  Sedgemoor 
near  Bridge  water.     The  surprise  failed.] 

It  was  four  o'clock:  the  sun  was  rising;  and  the  routed  army 
came  pouring  into  the  streets  of  Bridgewater.  The  uproar,  the 
blood,  the  gashes,  the  ghastly  figures  which  sank  down  and  never 
rose  again,  spread  horror  and  dismay  through  the  town.  The 
pursuers,  too,  were  close  behind.  Those  inhabitants  who  had 
favoured  the  insurrection  expected  sack  and  massacre,  and  im- 
plored the  protection  of  their  neighbours  who  professed  the 
Roman  Catholic  religion,  or  had  made  themselves  conspicuous 
by  Tory  politics ;  and  it  is  acknowledged  by  the  bitterest  of  Whig 
historians  that  this  protection  was  kindly  and  generously  given. 
During  that  day  the  conquerors  continued  to  chase  the  fugi- 
tives. The  neighbouring  villagers  long  remembered  with  what 
a  clatter  of  horsehoofs  and  what  a  storm  of  curses  the  whirlwind 
of  cavalry  swept  by.  Before  evening  five  hundred  prisoners  had 
been  crowded  into  the  parish  church  of  Weston  Zoyland.  Eighty 
of  them  were  wounded;  and  five  expired  within  the  consecrated 
walls.    Great  numbers   of  labourers  were   impressed  for   the 


ii8  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

purpose  of  burying  the  slain.  A  few,  who  were  notoriously  partial 
to  the  vanquished  side,  were  set  apart  for  the  hideous  office  of 
quartering  the  captives.  The  tithing  men  of  the  neighbouring 
parishes  were  busied  in  setting  up  gibbets  and  providing  chains. 
All  this  while  the  bells  of  Weston  Zoyland  and  Chedzoy  rang 
joyously;  and  the  soldiers  sang  and  rioted  on  the  moor  amidst 
the  corpses.  For  the  farmers  of  the  neighbourhood  had  made 
haste,  as  soon  as  the  event  of  the  fight  was  known  to  send  hogs- 
heads of  their  best  cider  as  peace  offerings  to  the  victors. 

Feversham  passed  for  a  goodnatured  man:  but  he  was  a 
foreigner,  ignorant  of  the  laws  and  careless  of  the  feehngs  of  the 
English.  He  was  accustomed  to  the  military  license  of  France, 
and  had  learned  from  his  great  kinsman,  the  conqueror  and  dev- 
astator of  the  Palatinate,  not  indeed  how  to  conquer,  but  how 
to  devastate.  A  considerable  number  of  prisoners  were  immedi- 
ately selected  for  execution.  Among  them  was  a  youth  famous 
for  his  speed.  Hopes  were  held  out  to  him  that  his  Ufe  would  be 
spared  if  he  could  run  a  race  with  one  of  the  colts  of  the  marsh. 
The  space  through  which  the  man  kept  up  with  the  horse  is  still 
marked  by  well  known  bounds  on  the  moor,  and  is  about  three 
quarters  of  a  mile.  Feversham  was  not  ashamed,  after  seeing 
the  performance,  to  send  the  wretched  performer  to  the  gallows. 
The  next  day  a  long  Une  of  gibbets  appeared  on  the  road  leading 
from  Bridgewater  to  Weston  Zoyland.  On  each  gibbet  a  prisoner 
was  suspended.    Four  of  the  sufferers  were  left  to  rot  in  irons. 

Meanwhile  Monmouth,  accompanied  by  Grey,  by  Buyse, 
and  by  a  few  other  friends,  was  flying  from  the  field  of  battle. 
At  Chedzoy  he  stopped  a  moment  to  mount  a  fresh  horse  and  to 
hide  his  blue  riband  and  his  George.  He  then  hastened  towards 
the  Bristol  Channel.  From  the  rising  ground  on  the  north  of  the 
field  of  battle  he  saw  the  flash  and  the  smoke  of  the  last  volley 
fired  by  his  deserted  followers.  Before  six  o'clock  he  was  twenty 
miles  from  Sedgemoor.  Some  of  his  companions  advised  him 
to  cross  the  water,  and  seek  refuge  in  Wales;  and  this  would 


THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY  119 

undoubtedly  have  been  his  wisest  course.  He  would  have  been  in 
Wales  many  hours  before  the  news  of  his  defeat  was  known  there; 
and  in  a  country  so  wild  and  so  remote  from  the  seat  of  govern- 
ment, he  might  have  remained  long  undiscovered.  He  de- 
termined, however,  to  push  for  Hampshire,  in  the  hope  that  he 
might  lurk  in  the  cabins  of  deerstealers  among  the  oaks  of  the 
New  Forest,  till  means  of  conveyance  to  the  Continent  could  be 
procured.  He  therefore,  with  Grey  and  the  German,  turned  to 
the  southeast.  But  the  way  was  beset  with  dangers.  The  three 
fugitives  had  to  traverse  a  country  in  which  every  one  already 
knew  the  event  of  the  battle,  and  in  which  no  traveller  of  sus- 
picious appearance  could  escape  a  close  scrutiny.  They  rode  on 
all  day,  shunning  towns  and  villages.  Nor  was  this  so  difficult 
as  it  may  now  appear.  For  men  then  living  could  remember 
the  time  when  the  wild  deer  ranged  freely  through  a  succession 
of  forests  from  the  banks  of  the  Avon  in  Wiltshire  to  the  south- 
ern coast  of  Hampshire. 

At  length,  on  Cranbourne  Chase,  the  strength  of  the  horses 
failed.  They  were  therefore  turned  loose.  The  bridles  and 
saddles  were  concealed.  Monmouth  and  his  friends  procured 
rustic  attire,  disguised  themselves,  and  proceeded  on  foot 
towards  the  New  Forest.  They  passed  the  night  in  the  open 
air:  but  before  morning  they  were  surrounded  on  every  side  by 
toils.  Lord  Lumley,  who  lay  at  Ringwood  with  a  strong  body 
of  the  Sussex  militia,  had  sent  forth  parties  in  every  direction. 
Sir  WiUiam  Portman,  with  the  Somerset  militia,  had  formed  a 
chain  of  posts  from  the  sea  to  the  northern  extremity  of  Dorset. 
At  five  in  the  morning  of  the  seventh.  Grey,  who  had  wandered 
from  his  friends,  was  seized  by  two  of  the  Sussex  scouts. 
He  submitted  to  his  fate  with  the  calmness  of  one  to  whom 
suspense  was  more  intolerable  than  despair.  "  Since  we  landed," 
he  said,  "I  have  not  had  one  comfortable  meal  or  one 
quiet  night."  It  could  hardly  be  doubted  that  the  chief  rebel 
was  not  far  oflf. 


I20  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

The  pursuers  redoubled  their  vigilance  and  activity.  The 
cottages  scattered  over  the  heathy  country  on  the  boundaries 
of  Dorsetshire  and  Hampshire  were  strictly  examined  by  Lum- 
ley;  and  the  clown  with  whom  Monmouth  had  changed  clothes 
was  discovered.  Portman  came  with  a  strong  body  of  horse 
and  foot  to  assist  in  the  search.  Attention  was  soon  drawn  to 
a  place  well  fitted  to  shelter  fugitives.  It  was  an  extensive  tract 
of  land  separated  by  an  enclosure  from  the  open  country,  and 
divided  by  numerous  hedges  into  small  fields.  In  some  of  these 
fields  the  rye,  the  pease,  and  the  oats  were  high  enough  to 
conceal  a  man.  Others  were  overgrown  with  fern  and  brambles. 
A  poor  woman  reported  that  she  had  seen  two  strangers 
lurking  in  this  covert.  The  near  prospect  of  reward  animated 
the  zeal  of  the  troops.  It  was  agreed  that  every  man  who  did 
his  duty  in  the  search  should  have  a  share  of  the  promised  five 
thousand  pounds.  The  outer  fence  was  strictly  guarded:  the 
space  within  was  examined  with  indefatigable  diligence;  and 
several  dogs  of  quick  scent  were  turned  out  among  the  bushes. 
The  day  closed  before  the  work  could  be  completed:  but  careful 
watch  was  kept  all  night.  Thirty  times  the  fugitives  ventured 
to  look  through  the  outer  hedge:  but  everywhere  they  found  a 
sentinel  on  the  alert:  once  they  were  seen  and  fired  at;  they 
then  separated  and  concealed  themselves  in  different  hiding 
places. 

At  sunrise  the  next  morning  the  search  recommenced,  and 
Buyse  was  found.  He  owned  that  he  had  parted  from  the  Duke 
only  a  few  hours  before.  The  corn  and  copsewood  were  now 
beaten  with  more  care  than  ever.  At  length  a  gaunt  figure  was 
discovered  hidden  in  a  ditch.  The  pursuers  sprang  on  their 
prey.  Some  of  them  were  about  to  fire:  but  Portman  forbade 
all  violence.  The  prisoner's  dress  was  that  of  a  shepherd;  his 
beard,  prematurely  grey,  was  of  several  days'  growth.  He 
trembled  greatly,  and  was  unable  to  speak.  Even  those  who  had 
often  seen  him  were  at  first  in  doubt  whether  this  were  truly 


THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY  121 

the  brilliant  and  graceful  Monmouth.  His  pockets  were  searched 
by  Portman,  and  in  them  were  found,  among  some  raw  pease 
gathered  in  the  rage  of  hunger,  a  watch,  a  purse  of  gold,  a  small 
treatise  on  fortification,  an  album  filled  with  songs,  receipts, 
prayers,  and  charms,  and  the  George  with  which,  many  years 
before,  King  Charles  the  Second  had  decorated  his  favourite 
son.  Messengers  were  instantly  despatched  to  Whitehall  with 
the  good  news,  and  with  the  George  as  a  token  that  the  news 
was  true.  The  prisoner  was  conveyed  under  a  strong  guard  to 
Ringwood. 

And  all  was  lost;  and  nothing  remained  but  that  he  should 
prepare  to  meet  death  as  became  one  who  had  thought  himself 
not  unworthy  to  wear  the  crown  of  William  the  Conqueror  and 
of  Richard  the  Lionhearted,  of  the  hero  of  Cressy  and  of  the  hero 
of  Agincourt.  The  captive  might  easily  have  called  to  mind 
other  domestic  examples,  still  better  suited  to  his  condition. 
Within  a  hundred  years,  two  sovereigns  whose  blood  ran  in  his 
veins,  one  of  them  a  deHcate  woman,  had  been  placed  in  the  same 
situation  in  which  he  now  stood.  They  had  shown,  in  the  prison 
and  on  the  scaffold,  virtue  of  which,  in  the  season  of  prosperity, 
they  had  seemed  incapable,  and  had  half  redeemed  great  crimes 
and  errors  by  enduring  with  Christian  meekness  and  princely 
dignity  all  that  victorious  enemies  could  inflict.  Of  cowardice 
Monmouth  had  never  been  accused;  and,  even  had  he  been 
wanting  in  constitutional  courage,  it  might  have  been  expected 
that  the  defect  would  be  supplied  by  pride  and  by  despair.  The 
eyes  of  the  whole  world  were  upon  him.  The  latest  generations 
would  know  how,  in  that  .extremity,  he  had  borne  himself.  To 
the  brave  peasants  of  the  West  he  owed  it  to  show  that  they 
had  not  poured  forth  their  blood  for  a  leader  unworthy  of 
their  attachment.  To  her  who  had  sacrificed  everything  for 
his  sake  he  owed  it  so  to  bear  himself  that,  though  she  might 
weep  for  him,  she  should  not  blush  for  him.  It  was  not  for 
him  to  lament  and  suppUcate.   His  reason,  too,  should  have 


122  PROSE  NARRATIVES      • 

told  him  that  lamentation  and  supplication  would  be  unavailing. 
He  had  done  that  which  could  never  be  forgiven.  He  was  in 
the  grasp  of  one  who  never  forgave. 

But  the  fortitude  of  Monmouth  was  not  that  highest  sort  of 
fortitude  which  is  derived  from  reflection  and  from  self  respect; 
nor  had  nature  given  him  one  of  those  stout  hearts  from  which 
neither  adversity  nor  peril  can  extort  any  sign  of  weakness.  His 
courage  rose  and  fell  with  his  animal  spirits.  It  was  sustained  on 
the  field  of  battle  by  the  excitement  of  action,  by  the  hope  of 
victory,  by  the  strange  influence  of  sympathy.  All  such  aids 
were  now  taken  away.  The  spoiled  darling  of  the  court  and  of 
the  populace,  accustomed  to  be  loved  and  worshipped  wherever 
he  appeared,  was  now  surrounded  by  stern  gaolers  in  whose  eyes 
he  read  his  doom.  Yet  a  few  hours  of  gloomy  seclusion,  and 
he  must  die  a  violent  and  shameful  death.  His  heart  sank 
within  him.  Life  seemed  worth  purchasing  by  any  humilia- 
tion; nor  could  his  mind,  always  feeble,  and  now  distracted 
by  terror,  perceive  that  humiliation  must  degrade,  but  could 
not  save  him. 

As  soon  as  he  reached  Ringwood  he  wrote  to  the  King.  The 
letter  was  that  of  a  man  whom  a  craven  fear  had  made  insensible 
to  shame.  He  professed  in  vehement  terms  his  remorse  for  his 
treason.  He  afl&rmed  that,  when  he  promised  his  cousins  at  the 
Hague  not  to  raise  troubles  in  England,  he  had  fully  meant  to 
keep  his  word.  Unhappily  he  had  afterwards  been  seduced  from 
his  allegiance  by  some  horrid  people  who  had  heated  his  mind  by 
calumnies  and  misled  him  by  sophistry;  but  now  he  abhorred 
them:  he  abhorred  himself.  He  begged  in  piteous  terms  that  he 
might  be  admitted  to  the  royal  presence.  There  was  a  secret 
which  he  could  not  trust  to  paper,  a  secret  which  lay  in  a  single 
word,  and  which,  if  he  spoke  that  word,  would  secure  the  throne 
against  all  danger.  On  the  following  day  he  despatched  let- 
ters, imploring  the  Queen  Dowager  and  the  Lord  Treasurer  to 
intercede  in  his  behalf. 


THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY  123 

When  it  was  known  in  London  how  he  had  abased  himself  the 
general  surprise  was  great;  and  no  man  was  more  amazed  than 
Barillon,  who  had  resided  in  England  during  two  bloody  pro- 
scriptions, and  had  seen  numerous  victims,  both  of  the  Opposi- 
tion and  of  the  Court,  submit  to  their  fate  without  womanish 
entreaties  and  lamentations. 

Monmouth  and  Grey  remained  at  Ringwood  two  days.  They 
were  then  carried  up  to  London,  under  the  guard  of  a  large  body 
of  regular  troops  and  miUtia.  In  the  coach  with  the  Duke  was 
an  oflicer  whose  orders  were  to  stab  the  prisoner  if  a  rescue  were 
attempted.  At  every  town  along  the  road  the  trainbands  of  the 
neighbourhood  had  been  mustered  under  the  command  of  the 
principal  gentry.  The  march  lasted  three  days,  and  terminated 
at  Vauxhall,  where  a  regiment,  commanded  by  George  Legge, 
Lord  Dartmouth,  was  in  readiness  to  receive  the  prisoners.  They 
were  put  on  board  of  a  state  barge,  and  carried  down  the  river 
to  Whitehall  Stairs.  Lumley  and  Portman  had  alternately 
watched  the  Duke  day  and  night  till  they  had  brought  him 
within  the  walls  of  the  palace. 

Both  the  demeanour  of  Monmouth  and  that  of  Grey,  during 
the  journey,  filled  all  observers  with  surprise.  Monmouth  was 
altogether  unnerved.  Grey  was  not  only  calm  but  cheerful, 
talked  pleasantly  of  horses,  dogs,  and  field  sports,  and  even 
made  jocose  allusions  to  the  perilous  situation  in  which  he  stood. 

The  King  cannot  be  blamed  for  determining  that  Monmouth 
should  suffer  death.  Every  man  who  heads  a  rebeUion  against 
an  established  government  stakes  his  life  on  the  event;  and  re- 
bellion was  the  smallest  part  of  Monmouth's  crime.  He  had 
declared  against  his  uncle  a  war  without  quarter.  In  the  mani- 
festo put  forth  at  Lyme,  James  had  been  held  up  to  execration 
as  an  incendiary,  as  an  assassin  who  had  strangled  one  innocent 
man  and  cut  the  throat  of  another,  and,  lastly,  as  the  poisoner 
of  his  own  brother.  To  spare  an  enemy  who  had  not  scrupled 
to  resort  to  such  extremities  would  have  been  an  act  of  rare, 


124  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

perhaps  of  blamable  generosity.  But  to  see  him  and  not  to 
spare  him  was  an  outrage  on  humanity  and  decency.  This  out- 
rage the  King  resolved  to  commit.  The  arms  of  the  prisoner  were 
bound  behind  him  with  a  silken  cord;  and,  thus  secured,  he  was 
ushered  into  the  presence  of  the  implacable  kinsman  whom  he 
had  wronged. 

Then  Monmouth  threw  himself  on  the  ground,  and  crawled 
to  the  King's  feet.  He  wept.  He  tried  to  embrace  his  uncle's 
knees  with  his  pinioned  arms.  He  begged  for  life,  only  life,  life 
at  any  price.  He  owned  that  he  had  been  guilty  of  a  great  crime, 
but  tried  to  throw  the  blame  on  others,  particularly  on  Argyle, 
who  would  rather  have  put  his  legs  into  the  boots  than  have 
saved  his  own  life  by  such  baseness.  By  the  ties  of  kindred,  by 
the  memory  of  the  late  King,  who  had  been  the  best  and  truest 
of  brothers,  the  unhappy  man  adjured  James  to  show  some 
mercy.  James  gravely  replied  that  this  repentance  was  of  the 
latest,  that  he  was  sorry  for  the  misery  which  the  prisoner  had 
brought  on  himself,  but  that  the  case  was  not  one  for  lenity. 
A  Declaration,  filled  with  atrocious  calumnies,  had  been  put 
forth.  The  regal  title  had  been  assumed.  For  treasons  so  aggra- 
vated there  could  be  no  pardon  on  this  side  of  the  grave.  The 
poor  terrified  Duke  vowed  that  he  had  never  wished  to  take  the 
crown,  but  had  been  led  into  that  fatal  error  by  others.  As  to 
the  Declaration,  he  had  not  written  it:  he  had  not  read  it:  he 
had  signed  it  without  looking  at  it:  it  was  all  the  work  of  Fergu- 
son, that  bloody  villain  Ferguson.  "Do  you  expect  me  to  be- 
lieve," said  James,  with  contempt  but  too  well  merited,  "that 
you  set  your  hand  to  a  paper  of  such  moment  without  knowing 
what  it  contained?"  One  depth  of  infamy  only  remained;  and 
even  to  that  the  prisoner  descended.  He  was  preeminently  the 
champion  of  the  Protestant  religion.  The  interest  of  that  re- 
ligion had  been  his  plea  for  conspiring  against  the  government 
of  his  father,  and  for  bringing  on  his  country  the  miseries  of  civil 
war;  yet  he  was  not  ashamed  to  hint  that  he  was  inclined  to  be 


THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY  125 

reconciled  to  the  Church  of  Rome.  The  King  eagerly  offered 
him  spiritual  assistance,  but  said  nothing  of  pardon  or  respite. 
''Is  there  then  no  hope?"  asked  Monmouth.  James  turned 
away  in  silence.  Then  Monmouth  strove  to  rally  his  courage, 
rose  from  his  knees,  and  retired  with  a  firmness  which  he  had 
not  shown  since  his  overthrow. 

Grey  was  introduced  next.  He  behaved  with  a  propriety  and 
fortitude  which  moved  even  the  stern  and  resentful  King, 
frankly  owned  himself  guilty,  made  no  excuses,  and  did  not 
once  stoop  to  ask  his  life.  Both  the  prisoners  were  sent  to  the 
Tower  by  water.  There  was  no  tumult;  but  many  thousands 
of  people,  with  anxiety  and  sorrow  in  their  faces,  tried  to  catch 
a  glimpse  of  the  captives.  The  Duke's  resolution  failed  as  soon 
as  he  had  left  the  royal  presence.  On  his  way  to  his  prison  he 
bemoaned  himself,  accused  his  followers,  and  abjectly  implored 
the  intercession  of  Dartmouth.  "I  know,  my  Lord,  that  you 
loved  my  father.  For  his  sake,  for  God's  sake,  try  if  there  be 
any  room  for  mercy."  Dartmouth  replied  that  the  King  had 
spoken  the  truth,  and  that  a  subject  who  assumed  the  regal 
title  excluded  himself  from  all  hope  of  pardon. 

Soon  after  Monmouth  had  been  lodged  in  the  Tower,  he  was 
informed  that  his  wife  had,  by  the  royal  command,  been  sent 
to  see  him.  She  was  accompanied  by  the  Earl  of  Clarendon, 
Keeper  of  the  Privy  Seal.  Her  husband  received  her  very  coldly, 
and  addressed  almost  all  his  discourse  to  Clarendon,  whose 
intercession  he  earnestly  implored.  Clarendon  held  out  no  hopes ; 
and  that  same  evening  two  prelates,  Turner,  Bishop  of  Ely,  and 
Ken,  Bishop  of  Bath  and  Wells,  arrived  at  the  Tower  with  a 
solemn  message  from  the  King.  It  was  Monday  night.  On 
Wednesday  morning  Monmouth  was  to  die. 

He  was  greatly  agitated.  The  blood  left  his  cheeks;  and  it 
was  some  time  before  he  could  speak.  Most  of  the  short  time 
which  remained  to  him  he  wasted  in  vain  attempts  to  obtain, 
if  not  a  pardon,  at  least  a  respite.    He  wrote  piteous  letters  to 


126  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

the  King  and  to  several  courtiers,  but  in  vain.  Some  Roman 
Catholic  divines  were  sent  to  him  from  Whitehall.  But  they 
soon  discovered  that,  though  he  would  gladly  have  purchased 
his  life  by  renouncing  the  religion  of  which  he  had  professed 
himself  in  an  especial  manner  the  defender,  yet,  if  he  was  to  die, 
he  would  as  soon  die  without  their  absolution  as  with  it. 

Nor  were  Ken  and  Turner  much  better  pleased  with  his  frame 
of  mind.  The  doctrine  of  nonresistance  was,  in  their  view,  as 
in  the  view  of  most  of  their  brethren,  the  distinguishing  badge 
of  the  AngUcan  Church.  The  two  Bishops  insisted  on  Mon- 
mouth's owning  that,  in  drawing  the  sword  against  the  govern- 
ment, he  had  committed  a  great  sin;  and,  on  this  point,  they 
found  him  obstinately  heterodox.  Nor  was  this  his  only  heresy. 
He  maintained  that  his  connection  with  Lady  Wentworth  was 
blameless  in  the  sight  of  God.  He  had  been  married,  he  said, 
when  a  child.  He  had  never  cared  for  his  Duchess.  The  happi- 
ness which  he  had  not  found  at  home  he  had  sought  in  a  round  of 
loose  amours,  condemned  by  religion  and  morality.  Henrietta 
had  reclaimed  him  from  a  hf e  of  vice.  To  her  he  had  been  strictly 
constant.  They  had,  by  common  consent,  offered  up  fervent 
prayers  for  the  divine  guidance.  After  those  prayers  they  had 
found  their  affection  for  each  other  strengthened;  and  they 
could  then  no  longer  doubt  that,  in  the  sight  of  God,  they  were  a 
wedded  pair.  The  Bishops  were  so  much  scandahsed  by  this 
view  of  the  conjugal  relation  that  they  refused  to  administer 
the  sacrament  to  the  prisoner.  All  that  they  could  obtain  from 
him  was  a  promise  that,  during  the  single  night  which  still  re- 
mained to  him,  he  would  pray  to  be  enlightened  if  he  were  in 
error. 

On  the  Wednesday  morning,  at  his  particular  request.  Doctor 
Thomas  Tenison,  who  then  held  the  vicarage  of  Saint  Martin's, 
and,  in  that  important  cure,  had  obtained  the  high  esteem  of  the 
public,  came  to  the  Tower.  From  Tenison,  whose  opinions  were 
known  to  be  moderate,  the  Duke  expected  more  indulgence  than 


THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY  127 

Ken  and  Turner  were  disposed  to  show.  But  Tenison,  whatever 
might  be  his  sentiments  concerning  nonresistance  in  the  abstract, 
thought  the  late  rebellion  rash  and  wicked,  and  considered  Mon- 
mouth's notion  respecting  marriage  as  a  most  dangerous  delu- 
sion. Monmouth  was  obstinate.  He  had  prayed,  he  said,  for 
the  divine  direction.  His  sentiments  remained  unchanged;  and 
he  could  not  doubt  that  they  were  correct.  Tenison's  exhorta- 
tions were  in  milder  tone  than  those  of  the  Bishops.  But  he, 
'  like  them,  thought  that  he  should  not  be  justified  in  administer- 
ing the  Eucharist  to  one  whose  penitence  was  of  so  unsatis- 
factory a  nature. 

The  hour  drew  near:  all  hope  was  over;  and  Monmouth  had 
passed  from  pusillanimous  fear  to  the  apathy  of  despair.  His 
children  were  brought  to  his  room  that  he  might  take  leave  of 
them,  and  were  followed  by  his  wife.  He  spoke  to  her  kindly, 
but  without  emotion.  Though  she  was  a  woman  of  great 
strength  of  mind,  and  had  little  cause  to  love  him,  her  misery 
was  such  that  none  of  the  bystanders  could  refrain  from  weeping. 
He  alone  was  unmoved. 

It  was  ten  o'clock.  The  coach  of  the  Lieutenant  of  the  Tower 
was  ready.  Monmouth  requested  his  spiritual  advisers  to  ac- 
company him  to  the  place  of  execution;  and  they  consented: 
but  they  told  him  that,  in  their  judgment,  he  was  about  to  die 
in  a  perilous  state  of  mind,  and  that,  if  they  attended  him  it 
would  be  their  duty  to  exhort  him  to  the  last.  As  he  passed 
along  the  ranks  of  the  guards  he  saluted  them  with  a  smile;  and 
he  mounted  the  scaffold  with  a  firm  tread.  Tower  Hill  was 
covered  up  to  the  chimney  tops  with  an  innumerable  multitude 
of  gazers,  who,  in  awful  silence,  broken  only  by  sighs  and  the 
noise  of  weeping,  listened  for  the  last  accents  of  the  darling  of  the 
people.  ''I  shall  say  little,"  he  began.  "I  come  here,  not  to 
speak,  but  to  die.  I  die  a  Protestant  of  the  Church  of  England." 
The  Bishops  interrupted  him,  and  told  him  that,  unless  he  ac- 
knowledged resistance  to  be  sinful,  he  was  no  member  of  their 


128  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

church.  He  went  on  to  speak  of  his  Henrietta.  She  was,  he 
said,  a  young  lady  of  virtue  and  honour.  He  loved  her  to  the 
last,  and  he  could  not  die  without  giving  utterance  to  his  feelings. 
The  Bishops  again  interfered,  and  begged  him  not  to  use  such 
language.  Some  altercation  followed.  The  divines  have  been 
accused  of  dealing  harshly  with  the  dying  man.  But  they  appear 
to  have  only  discharged  what,  in  their  view,  was  a  sacred  duty. 
Monmouth  knew  their  principles,  and,  if  he  wished  to  avoid 
their  importunity,  should  have  dispensed  with  their  attendance. 
Their  general  arguments  against  resistance  had  no  effect  on  him. 
But  when  they  reminded  him  of  the  ruin  which  he  had  brought 
on  his  brave  and  loving  followers,  of  the  blood  which  had  been 
shed,  of  the  souls  which  had  been  sent  unprepared  to  the  great 
account,  he  was  touched,  and  said,  in  a  softened  voice,  "I  do 
own  that.  I  am  sorry  that  it  ever  happened."  They  prayed 
with  him  long  and  fervently;  and  he  joined  in  their  petitions  till 
they  invoked  a  blessing  on  the  KJng.  He  remained  silent. 
"Sir,"  said  one  of  the  Bishops,  "do  you  not  pray  for  the  King 
with  us?"  Monmouth  paused  some  time,  and,  after  an  internal 
struggle,  exclaimed  "Amen."  But  it  was  in  vain  that  the  pre- 
lates implored  him  to  address  to  the  soldiers  and  to  the  people 
a  few  words  on  the  duty  of  obedience  to  the  government.  "I 
will  make  no  speeches,"  he  exclaimed.  "Only  ten  words,  my 
Lord."  He  turned  away,  called  his  servant,  and  put  into  the 
man's  hand  a  toothpick  case,  the  last  token  of  ill  starred  love. 
"Give  it,"  he  said,  "to  that  person."  He  then  accosted  John 
Ketch  the  executioner,  a  wretch  who  had  butchered  many  brave 
and  noble  victims,  and  whose  name  has,  during  a  century  and  a 
half,  been  vulgarly  given  to  all  who  have  succeeded  him  in  his 
odious  office.  "Here,"  said  the  Duke,  "are  six  guineas  for  you. 
Do  not  hack  me  as  you  did  my  Lord  Russell.  I  have  heard  that 
you  struck  him  three  or  four  times.  My  servant  will  give  you 
some  more  gold  if  you  do  the  work  well."  He  then  undressed, 
felt  the  edge  of  the  axe,  expressed  some  fear  that  it  was  not  sharp 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  129 

enough,  and  laid  his  head  on  the  block.  The  divines  in  the  mean- 
time continued  to  ejaculate  with  great  energy:  "God  accept 
your  repentance!    God  accept  your  imperfect  repentance!" 

The  hangman  addressed  himself  to  his  oflSce.  But  he  had  been 
disconcerted  by  what  the  Duke  had  said.  The  first  blow  inflicted 
only  a  slight  wound.  The  Duke  struggled,  rose  from  the  block, 
and  looked  reproachfully  at  the  executioner.  The  head  sunk 
down  once  more.  The  stroke  was  repeated  again  and  again ;  but 
still  the  neck  was  not  severed,  and  the  body  continued  to  move. 
Yells  of  rage  and  horror  rose  from  the  crowd.  Ketch  flung  down 
the  axe  with  a  curse.  " I  cannot  do  it,"  he  said;  " my  heart  fails 
me."  ''Take  up  the  axe,  man,"  cried  the  sheriff.  "Fling  him 
over  the  rails,"  roared  the  mob.  At  length  the  axe  was  taken  up. 
Two  more  blows  extinguished  the  last  remains  of  life;  but  a  knife 
was  used  to  separate  the  head  from  the  shoulders.  The  crowd 
was  wrought  up  to  such  an  ecstasy  of  rage  that  the  executioner 
was  in  danger  of  being  torn  in  pieces,  and  was  conveyed  away 
under  a  strong  guard. 


THOMAS  CARLYLE 
1795-1881 

THE  BATTLE  OF  DUNBAR 

[From  Cromwell's  Letters  and  Speeches,  Part  VI  (1845). 

From  the  island  of  Jersey  Charles  the  Second  had  plotted  with  the 
Government  of  Scotland  for  an  uprising  against  the  Commonwealth. 
Cromwell,  recalled  to  London  from  his  campaign  in  Ireland  (1650), 
pushed  north  and  crossed  the  Tweed  with  fifteen  thousand  men,  for 
provisions  relying  on  a  fleet  which  sailed  along  the  coast.  David 
Lesley,  leader  of  the  Scotch  forces,  lay  between  Edinburgh  and  Leith, 
at  first  refusing  battle.] 

LETTERS  CXXXIX— CXLVI 

The  small  Town  of  Dunbar  stands,  high  and  windy,  looking 
down  over  its  herring-boats,  over  its  grim  old  Castle  now  much 
9 


I30  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

honey-combed, —  on  one  of  those  projecting  rock-promontories 
with  which  that  shore  of  the  Frith  of  Forth  is  niched  and  van- 
dyked,  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach.  A  beautiful  sea;  good  land 
too,  now  that  the  plougher  understands  his  trade;  a  grim  niched 
barrier  of  whinstone  sheltering  it  from  the  chafings  and  tum- 
blings of  the  big  blue  German  Ocean,  Seaward  St.  Abb's  Head, 
of  whinstone,  bounds  your  horizon  to  the  east,  not  very  far  ofif; 
west,  close  by,  is  the  deep  bay,  and  fishy  little  village  of  Bel- 
haven:  the  gloomy  Bass  and  other  rock-islets,  and  farther  the 
Hills  of  Fife,  and  foreshadows  of  the  Highlands,  are  visible  as 
you  look  seaward.  From  the  bottom  of  Belhaven  Bay  to  that  of 
the  next  seabight  St.  Abb's-ward,  the  Town  and  its  environs  form 
a  peninsula.  Along  the  base  of  which  peninsula,  ''not  much 
above  a  mile  and  a  half  from  sea  to  sea,"  Oliver  Cromwell's  Army 
on  Monday  2d  of  September  1650,  stands  ranked,  with  its  tents 
and  Town  behind  it, —  in  very  forlorn  circumstances.  This  now 
is  all  the  ground  that  Oliver  is  lord  of  in  Scotland.  His  Ships  lie 
in  the  offing,  with  biscuit  and  transport  for  him;  but  visible  else- 
where in  the  Earth  no  help. 

Landward  as  you  look  from  the  Town  of  Dunbar  there  rises, 
some  short  mile  off,  a  dusky  continent  of  barren  heath  Hills;  the 
Lammermoor,  where  only  mountain-sheep  can  be  at  home.  The 
crossing  of  which,  by  any  of  its  boggy  passes,  and  brawling 
stream-courses,  no  Army,  hardly  a  sohtary  Scotch  Packman 
could  attempt,  in  such  weather.  To  the  edge  of  these  Lammer- 
moor Heights,  David  Lesley  has  betaken  himself;  lies  now  along 
the  outmost  spur  of  them, —  a  long  Hill  of  considerable  height, 
which  the  Dunbar  people  call  the  Dun,  Doon,  or  sometimes  for 
fashion's  sake  the  Down,  adding  to  it  the  Teutonic  Hill  likewise, 
though  Dun  itself  in  old  Celtic  signifies  Hill,  On  this  Doon  Hill 
lies  David  Lesley  with  the  victorious  Scotch  Army,  upwards  of 
Twenty- thousand  strong;  with  the  Committees  of  Kirk  and 
Estates,  the  chief  Dignitaries  of  the  Country,  and  in  fact  the 
flower  of  what  the  pure  Covenant  in  this  the  Twelfth  year  of  its 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  131 

existence  can  still  bring  forth.  There  Ues  he  since  Sunday  night, 
on  the  top  and  slope  of  this  DoonHiU,  with  the  impassable  heath- 
continents  behind  him;  embraces,  as  within  outspread  tiger- 
claws,  the  base-line  of  OUver's  Dunbar  peninsula;  waiting  what 
OUver  will  do.  Cockburnspath  with  its  ravines  has  been  seized 
on  OUver's  left,  and  made  impassable;  behind  Oliver  is  the  sea; 
in  front  of  him  Lesley,  Doon  Hill,  and  the  heath-continent  of 
Lammermoor.  Lesley's  force  is  of  Three-and-twenty-thousand, 
in  spirits  as  of  men  chasing,  Oliver's  about  half  as  many,  in 
spirits  as  of  men  chased.    What  is  to  become  of  OUver? 

LETTER  CXXXIX 

Haselrig,  as  we  know,  is  Governor  of  Newcastle.  Oliver  on 
Monday  writes  this  Note;  means  to  send  it  off,  I  suppose,  by 
sea.  Making  no  complaint  for  himself,  the  remarkable  Oliver; 
doing,  with  grave  brevity,  in  the  hour  the  business  of  the  hour. 
*'He  was  a  strong  man,"  so  intimates  Charles  Harvey,  who  knew 
him:  "in  the  dark  perils  of  war,  in  the  high  places  of  the  field, 
hope  shone  in  him  Uke  a  piUar  of  fire,  when  it  had  gone  out  in  ah 
the  others."  A  genuine  King  among  men,  Mr.  Harvey.  The 
divinest  sight  this  world  sees, —  when  it  is  privileged  to  see  such, 
and  not  be  sickened  with  the  unholy  apery  of  such!  He  is  just 
now  upon  an  "engagement,"  or  complicated  concern,  "very 
difficult." 

To  the  Honourable  Sir  Arthur  Haselrig  at  Newcastle  or  elsewhere: 

These.     Haste,  haste. 

'Dunbar/  2d  September  1650 

Dear  Sir, 
We  are  upon  an  Engagement  very  difficult.  The  Enemy  hath 
blocked  up  our  way  at  the  Pass  at  Copperspath,  through  which 
we  cannot  get  without  almost  a  miracle.  He  lieth  so  upon  the  HiUs 
that  we  know  not  how  to  come  that  way  without  great  difficulty; 
and  our  lying  here  daily  consumeth  our  men,  who  faU  sick  beyond 
imagination. 


132  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

I  perceive,  your  forces  are  not  in  a  capacity  for  present  release. 
Wherefore,  whatever  becomes  of  us,  it  will  be  well  for  you  to  get 
what  forces  you  can  together;  and  the  South  to  help  what  they  can. 
The  business  nearly  concerneth  all  Good  People.  If  your  forces  had 
been  in  a  readiness  to  have  fallen  upon  the  back  of  Copperspath,  it 
might  have  occasioned  supplies  to  have  come  to  us.  But  the  only 
wise  God  knows  what  is  best.  All  shall  work  for  Good.  Our  spirits 
are  comfortable,  praised  be  the  Lord, — though  our  present  condition 
be  as  it  is.  And  indeed  we  have  much  hope  in  the  Lord;  of  whose 
mercy  we  have  had  large  experience. 

Indeed  do  you  get  together  what  forces  you  can  against  them. 
Send  to  friends  in  the  South  to  help  with  more.  Let  H.  Vane  know 
what  I  write.  I  would  not  make  it  public,  lest  danger  should  accrue 
thereby.    You  know  what  use  to  make  hereof.    Let  me  hear  from 

you.    I  rest,  Your  servant,  Oliver  Cromwell 

'P.S.'  It's  difficult  for  me  to  send  to  you.  Let  me  hear  from  'you' 
after  'you  receive  this.* 

The  base  of  Oliver's  "Dunbar  Peninsula,"  as  we  have  called  it 
(or  Dunbar  Pinfold  where  he  is  now  hemmed  in,  upon  "an  en- 
tanglement very  difficult"),  extends  from  Belhaven  Bay  on  his 
right,  to  Brocksmouth  House  on  his  left;  "about  a  mile  and  a 
half  from  sea  to  sea."  Brocksmouth  House,  the  Earl  (now 
Duke)  of  Roxburgh's  mansion,  which  still  stands  there,  his  sol- 
diers now  occupy  as  their  extreme  post  on  the  left.  As  its  name 
indicates,  it  is  the  mouth  or  issue  of  a  small  Rivulet,  or  Burn, 
called  Brock,  Brockshurn;  which,  springing  from  the  Lammer- 
moor,  and  skirting  David  Lesley's  Doon  Hill,  finds  its  egress  here 
into  the  sea.  The  reader  who  would  form  an  image  to  himself  of 
the  great  Tuesday  3d  of  September  1650,  at  Dunbar,  must  note 
well  this  little  Burn.  It  runs  in  a  deep,  grassy  glen,  which  the 
South-country  Ofl&cers  in  those  old  Pamphlets  describe  as  a 
"deep  ditch,  forty  feet  in  depth,  and  about  as  many  in  width," — 
ditch  dug  out  by  the  little  Brook  itself,  and  carpeted  with  greens- 
ward, in  the  course  of  long  thousands  of  years.  It  runs  pretty 
close  by  the  foot  of  Doon  Hill;  forms,  from  this  point  to  the  sea, 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  133 

the  boundary  of  Oliver's  position:  his  force  is  arranged  in  battle- 
order  along  the  left  bank  of  this  Brocksburn,  and  its  grassy  glen; 
he  is  busied  all  Monday,  he  and  his  Officers,  in  ranking  them 
there.  "Before  sunrise  on  Monday"  Lesley  sent  down  liis  horse 
from  the  Hill- top,  to  occupy  the  other  side  of  this  Brook;  "  about 
four  in  the  afternoon  "  his  train  came  down,  his  whole  Army  grad- 
ually came  down;  and  they  now  are  ranking  themselves  on  the 
opposite  side  of  Brocksburn, —  on  rather  narrow  ground;  corn- 
fields, but  swiftly  sloping  upwards  to  the  steep  of  Doon  Hill. 
This  goes  on,  in  the  wild  showers  and  winds  of  Monday  2d  Sep- 
tember 1650,  on  both  sides  of  the  Rivulet  of  Brock.  ^  Whoever 
will  begin  the  attack,  must  get  across  this  Brook  and  its  glen 
first;  a  thing  of  much  disadvantage. 

Behind  Oliver's  ranks,  between  him  and  Dunbar,  stand  his 
tents;  sprinkled  up  and  down,  by  battalions,  over  the  face  of 
this  "Peninsula";  which  is  a  low  though  very  imeven  tract  of 
ground;  now  in  our  time  all  yellow  with  wheat  and  barley  in  the 
autumn  season,  but  at  that  date  only  partially  tilled, —  describ- 
able  by  Yorkshire  Hodgson  as  a  place  of  plashes  and  rough  bent- 
grass;  terribly  beaten  by  showery  winds  that  day,  so  that  your 
tent  will  hardly  stand.  There  was  then  but  one  Farm-house  on 
this  tract,  where  now  are  not  a  few:  thither  were  OHver's  Can- 
non sent  this  morning;  they  had  at  first  been  lodged  "in  the 
Church,"  an  edifice  standing  then  as  now  somewhat  apart,  "at 
the  south  end  of  Dunbar."  We  have  notice  of  only  one  other 
"small  house,"  belike  some  poor  shepherd's  homestead,  in  Oli- 
ver's tract  of  ground:  it  stands  close  by  the  Brock  Rivulet  itself, 
and  in  the  bottom  of  the  little  glen;  at  a  place  where  the  banks  of 
it  flatten  themselves  out  into  a  slope  passable  for  carts:  this  of 
course,  as  the  one  "pass"  in  that  quarter,  it  is  highly  important 
to  seize.  Pride  and  Lambert  lodged  " six  horse  and  fifteen  foot" 
in  this  poor  hut  early  in  the  morning:  Lesley's  horse  came  across, 
and  drove  them  out;  killing  some  and  "taking  three  prisoners"; 
— and  so  got  possession  of  this  pass  and  hut;  but  did  not  keep  it. 


134  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

Among  the  three  prisoners  was  one  musketeer,  ''a  very  stout 
man,  though  he  has  but  a  wooden  arm,"  and  some  iron  hook  at 
the  end  of  it,  poor  fellow.  He  "fired  thrice,"  not  without  effect, 
with  his  wooden  arm;  and  was  not  taken  without  difficulty:  a 
handfast  stubborn  man ;  they  carried  him  across  to  General  Les- 
ley to  give  some  account  of  himself.  In  several  of  the  old  Pamph- 
lets, which  agree  in  all  the  details  of  it,  this  is  what  we  read: 

"General  David  Lesley  (old  Leven,"  the  other  Lesley,  "being  in 
the  Castle  of  Edinburgh,  as  they  relate^),  asked  this  man,  If  the 
Enemy  did  intend  to  fight?  He  replied,  'What  do  you  think  we  come 
here  for?  We  come  for  nothing  else!' — 'Soldier,'  says  Lesley,  'how 
will  you  fight,  when  you  have  shipped  half  of  your  men,  and  all  your 
great  guns?'  The  Soldier  replied,  'Sir,  if  you  please  to  draw  down 
your  men,  you  shall  find  both  men  and  great  guns  too!'  " —  A  most 
dogged  handfast  man,  this  with  the  wooden  arm,  and  iron  hook  on  it! 
"One  of  the  Officers  asked,  How  he  durst  answer  the  general  so 
saucily?  He  said,  'I  only  answer  the  question  put  to  me!'  "  Lesley 
sent  him  across,  free  again,  by  a  trumpet:  he  made  his  way  to 
Cromwell;  reported  what  had  passed,  and  added  doggedly,  He  for 
one  had  lost  twenty  shillings  by  the  business, —  plundered  from  him 
in  this  action.  "The  Lord  General  gave  him  thereupon  two  pieces," 
which  I  think  are  forty  shillings;  and  sent  him  away  rejoicing. — 
This  is  the  adventure  at  the  "pass"  by  the  shepherd's  hut  in  the 
bottom  of  the  glen,  close  by  the  Brocksbum  itself. 

And  now  farther,  on  the  great  scale,  we  are  to  remark  very 
specially  that  there  is  just  one  other  "pass"  across  the  Brocks- 
burn;  and  this  is  precisely  where  the  London  road  now  crosses 
it;  about  a  mile  east  from  the  former  pass,  and  perhaps  two  gun- 
shots west  from  Brocksmouth  House.  There  the  great  road  then 
as  now  crosses  the  Burn  of  Brock;  the  steep  grassy  glen^  or 
"  broad  ditch  forty  feet  deep,"  flattening  itself  out  here  once  more 
into  a  passable  slope:  passable,  but  still  steep  on  the  southern  or 
Lesley  side,  still  mounting  up  there,  with  considerable  accHvity, 
into  a  high  table-ground,  out  of  which  the  Doon  Hill;  as  outskirt 

*  Old  Leven  is  here,  if  the  Pamphlet  knew;  but  only  as  a  volunteer  and  without 
command,  though  nominally  still  General-in-chief . 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  135 

of  the  Lammermoor,  a  short  mile  to  your  right,  gradually  gathers 
itself.  There,  at  this  "pass,"  on  and  about  the  present  London 
road,  as  you  discover  after  long  dreary  dim  examining,  took  place 
the  brunt  or  essential  agony  of  the  Battle  of  Dunbar  long  ago. 
Read  in  the  extinct  old  Pamphlets,  and  ever  again  obstinately 
read,  till  some  light  rise  in  them,  look  even  with  unmilitary  eyes 
at  the  ground  as  it  now  is,  you  do  at  last  obtain  small  glimmerings 
of  distinct  features  here  and  there,  —  which  gradually  coalesce 
into  a  kind  of  image  for  you;  and  some  spectrum  of  the  Fact 
becomes  visible;  rises  veritable,  face  to  face,  on  you,  grim  and 
sad  in  the  depths  of  the  old  dead  Time.  Yes,  my  travelling 
friends,  vehiculating  in  gigs  or  otherwise  over  that  piece  of  Lon- 
don road,  you  may  say  to  yourselves.  Here  without  monument  is 
the  grave  of  a  valiant  thing  which  was  done  under  the  Sun;  the 
footprint  of  a  Hero,  not  yet  quite  undistinguishable,  is  here! — 
"The  Lord  General  about  four  o'clock,"  say  the  old  Pam- 
phlets, "went  into  the  Town  to  take  some  refreshment,"  a 
hasty  late  dinner,  or  early  supper,  whichever  we  may  call  it;  "and 
very  soon  returned  back," — having  written  Sir  Arthur's  Letter, 
I  think,  in  the  interim.  Coursing  about  the  field,  with  enough  of 
things  to  order;  walking  at  last  with  Lambert  in  the  Park  or 
Garden  of  Brocksmouth  House,  he  discerns  that  Lesley  is  astir 
on  the  Hill-side;  altering  his  position  somewhat.  That  Lesley 
in  fact  is  coming  wholly  down  to  the  basis  of  the  Hill,  where  his 
horse  had  been  since  sunrise:  coming  wholly  down  to  the  edge  of 
the  Brook  and  glen,  among  the  sloping  harvest-fields  there;  and 
also  is  bringing  up  his  left  wing  of  horse,  most  part  of  it,  towards 
his  right;  edging  himself,  "shogging,"  as  Oliver  calls  it,  his  whole 
line  more  and  more  to  the  right!  His  meaning  is,  to  get  hold  of 
Brocksmouth  House  and  the  pass  of  the  Brook  there ;^  after 
which  it  will  be  free  to  him  to  attack  us  when  he  will ! — Lesley  in 
fact  considers,  or  at  least  the  Committee  of  Estates  and  Kirk 
consider,  that  Oliver  is  lost;  that,  on  the  whole,  he  must  not  be 

^  Baillie's  Letters,  iii.  111. 


136  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

left  to  retreat,  but  must  be  attacked  and  annihilated  here.  A 
vague  story,  due  to  Bishop  Burnet,  the  watery  source  of  many 
such,  still  circulates  about  the  world.  That  it  was  the  Kirk  Com- 
mittee who  forced  Lesley  down  against  his  will;  that  Oliver,  at 
sight  of  it,  exclaimed,  "The  Lord  hath  delivered"  etc.:  which 
nobody  is  in  the  least  bound  to  beHeve.  It  appears,  from  other 
quarters,  that  Lesley  was  advised  or  sanctioned  in  this  attempt 
by  the  Committee  of  Estates  and  Kirk,  but  also  that  he  was  by 
no  means  hard  to  advise;  that,  in  fact,  lying  on  the  top  of  Doon 
Hill,  shelterless  in  such  weather,  was  no  operation  to  spin  out  be- 
yond necessity; — and  that  if  anybody  pressed  too  much  upon 
him  with  advice  to  come  down  and  fight,  it  was  likeliest  to  be 
Royalist  Civil  Dignitaries,  who  had  plagued  him  with  their  cavil- 
lings at  his  cunctations,  at  his  "secret  fellow-feeUng  for  the  Sec- 
tarians and  Regicides,"  ever  since  this  War  began.  The  poor 
Scotch  Clergy  have  enough  of  their  own  to  answer  for  in  this 
business;  let  every  back  bear  the  burden  that  belongs  to  it. 
In  a  word,  Lesley  descends,  has  been  descending  all  day,  and 
"shogs"  himself  to  the  right, — urged,  I  beHeve,  by  manifold 
counsel,  and  by  the  nature  of  the  case;  and,  what  is  equally  im- 
portant for  us,  Oliver  sees  him,  and  sees  through  him,  in  this 
movement  of  his. 

At  sight  of  this  movement,  Oliver  suggests  to  Lambert  standing 
by  him.  Does  it  not  give  us  an  advantage,  if  we,  instead  of  him, 
like  to  begin  the  attack?  Here  is  the  Enemy's  right  wing  coming 
out  to  the  open  space,  free  to  be  attacked  on  any  side;  and  the 
main-battle  hampered  in  narrow  sloping  ground  between  Doon 
Hill  and  the  Brook,  has  no  room  to  manoeuvre  or  assist:^  beat 
this  right  wing  where  it  now  stands;  take  it  in  flank  and  front 
with  an  overpowering  force, — it  is  driven  upon  its  own  main- 
battle,  the  whole  Army  is  beaten?  Lambert  eagerly  assents, 
"had  meant  to  say  the  same  thing."  Monk,  who  comes  up  at 
the  moment,  likewise  assents;  as  the  other  Officers  do,  when  the 

^  Hodgson. 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  137 

case  is  set  before  them.  It  is  the  plan  resolved  upon  for  battle. 
The  attack  shall  begin  to-morrow  before  dawn. 

And  so  the  soldiers  stand  to  their  arms,  or  lie  within  instant 
reach  of  their  arms,  all  night;  being  upon  an  engagement  very- 
difficult  indeed.  The  night  is  wild  and  wet; — 2d  of  September 
means  12th  by  our  calendar:  the  Harvest  Moon  wades  deep 
among  clouds  of  sleet  and  hail.  Whoever  has  a  heart  for  prayer, 
let  him  pray  now,  for  the  wrestle  of  death  is  at  hand.  Pray, — 
and  withal  keep  his  powder  dry!  And  be  ready  for  extremities, 
and  quit  himself  Hke  a  man! — Thus  they  pass  the  night;  making 
that  Dunbar  Peninsula  and  Brock  Rivulet  long  memorable 
to  me.  We  EngUsh  have  some  tents;  the  Scots  have  none.  The 
hoarse  sea  moans  bodeful,  swinging  low  and  heavy  against  these 
whinstone  bays;  the  sea  and  the  tempests  are  abroad,  all  else 
asleep  but  we, — and  there  is  One  that  rides  on  the  wings  of 
the  wind. 

Towards  three  in  the  morning  the  Scotch  foot,  by  order  of  a 
Major-General  say  some,  extinguish  their  matches,  all  but  two 
in  a  company;  cower  under  the  corn-shocks,  seeking  some  im- 
perfect shelter  and  sleep.  Be  wakeful,  ye  EngUsh;  watch,  and 
pray,  and  keep  your  powder  dry.  About  four  o'clock  comes 
order  to  my  puddingheaded  Yorkshire  friend,  that  his  regiment 
must  mount  and  march  straightway;  his  and  various  other  regi- 
ments march,  pouring  swiftly  to  the  left  to  Brocksmouth  House, 
to  the  Pass  over  the  Brock.  With  overpowering  force  let  us 
storm  the  Scots  right  wing  there;  beat  that,  and  all  is  beaten. 
Major  Hodgson  riding  along,  heard,  he  says,  "si  Cornet  praying 
in  the  night";  a  company  of  poor  men,  I  think,  making  worship 
there,  under  the  void  Heaven,  before  battle  joined:  Major  Hodg- 
son, giving  his  charge  to  a  brother  Officer,  turned  aside  to  listen 
for  a  minute,  and  worship  and  pray  along  with  them;  haply  his 
last  prayer  on  this  Earth,  as  it  might  prove  to  be.  But  no:  this 
Cornet  prayed  with  such  effusion  as  was  wonderful;  and  im- 
parted strength  to  my  Yorkshire  friend,  who  strengthened  his 


138  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

men  by  telling  them  of  it.  And  the  Heavens,  in  their  mercy,  I 
think,  have  opened  us  a  way  of  deUverance ! — The  Moon  gleams 
out,  hard  and  blue,  riding  among  hail-clouds;  and  over  St.  Abb's 
Head,  a  streak  of  dawn  is  rising. 

And  now  is  the  hour  when  the  attack  should  be,  and  no  Lam- 
bert is  yet  here,  he  is  ordering  the  line  far  to  the  right  yet;  and 
Oliver  occasionally,  in  Hodgson's  hearing,  is  impatient  for  him. 
The  Scots  too,  on  this  wing,  are  awake;  thinking  to  surprise  us; 
there  is  their  trumpet  sounding,  we  heard  it  once;  and  Lambert, 
who  was  to  lead  the  attack,  is  not  here.  The  Lord  General  is  im- 
patient;— ^behold  Lambert  at  last!  The  trumpets  peal,  shatter- 
ing with  fierce  clangour  Night's  silence;  the  cannons  awaken 
along  all  the  Line:  "The  Lord  of  Hosts!  The  Lord  of  Hosts!" 
On,  my  brave  ones,  on! — 

The  dispute  "on  this  right  wing  was  hot  and  stiff,  for  three 
quarters  of  an  hour . ' '  Plenty  of  fire,  from  fieldpieces,  snaphances, 
matchlocks,  entertains  the  Scotch  main-battle  across  the  Brock; 
— poor  stiffened  men,  roused  from  the  corn-shocks  with  their 
matches  all  out !  But  here  on  the  right,  their  horse,  "  with  lancers 
in  the  front  rank,"  charge  desperately;  drive  us  back  across  the 
hollow  of  the  Rivulet; — back  a  little;  but  the  Lord  gives  us  cour- 
age, and  we  storm  home  again,  horse  and  foot,  upon  them,  with  a 
shock  like  tornado  tempests;  break  them,  beat  them,  drive  them 
all  adrift.  "Some  fled  towards  Copperspath,  but  most  across 
their  own  foot."  Their  own  poor  foot,  whose  matches  were 
hardly  well  alight  yet!  Poor  men,  it  was  a  terrible  awakening 
for  them:  fieldpieces  and  charge  of  foot  across  the  Brocksburn; 
and  now  here  is  their  own  horse  in  mad  panic  trampling  them  to 
death.  Above  Three-thousand  killed  upon  the  place:  "I  never 
saw  such  a  charge  of  foot  and  horse,"  says  one;  nor  did  I.  Oliver 
was  still  near  to  Yorkshire  Hodgson  when  the  shock  succeeded; 
Hodgson  heard  him  say,  "They  run!  I  profess  they  run!"  And 
over  St.  Abb's  Head  and  the  German  Ocean,  just  then,  bursts 
the  first  gleam  of  the  level  Sun  upon  us,  "and  I  heard  Nol  say,  in 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  139 

the  words  of  the  Psalmist,  'Let  God  arise,  let  His  enemies  be 
scattered,'" — or  in  Rous's  metre, 

Let  God  arise,  and  scattered 

Let  all  his  enemies  be; 
And  let  all  those  that  do  him  hate 

Before  his  presence  flee! 

Even  so.  The  Scotch  Army  is  shivered  to  utter  ruin;  rushes 
in  tumultuous  wreck,  hither,  thither;  to  Belhaven,  or,  in  their 
distraction,  even  to  Dunbar,  the  chase  goes  as  far  as  Haddington; 
led  by  Hacker.  ''The  Lord  General  made  a  halt,"  says  Hodg- 
son, "and  sang  the  Hundred-and-seventeenth  Psalm,"  till  our 
horse  could  gather  for  the  chase.  Hundred-and-seventeenth 
Psalm,  at  the  foot  of  the  Doon  Hill;  there  we  uplift  it,  to  the 
tune  of  Bangor,  or  some  still  higher  score,  and  roll  it  strong  and 
great  against  the  sky : 

O  give  ye  praise  unto  the  Lord, 

All  nati-ons  that  be; 
Likewise  ye  people  all,  accord 

His  name  to  magnify! 

For  great  to-us-ward  ever  are 

His  lovingkindnesses ; 
His  truth  endures  forevermore: 

The  Lord  O  do  ye  bless! 

And  now,  to  the  chase  again. 

The  Prisoners  are  Ten-thousand, — all  the  foot  in  a  mass. 
Many  Dignitaries  are  taken;  not  a  few  are  slain;  of  whom  see 
Printed  Lists, —  full  of  blunders.  Provost  Jaffray  of  Aberdeen, 
Member  of  the  Scots  Parliament,  one  of  the  Committee  of  Es- 
tates, was  very  nearly  slain :  a  trooper's  sword  was  in  the  air  to 
sever  him,  but  one  cried.  He  is  a  man  of  consequence;  he  can 
ransom  himself ! — and  the  trooper  kept  him  prisoner.  The  first 
of  the  Scots  Quakers,  by  and  by;  and  an  official  person  much 
reconciled  to  Oliver.    Ministers  also  of  the  Kirk  Committee  were 


I40  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

slain;  two  Ministers  I  find  taken,  poor  Carstairs  of  Glasgow, 
poor  Waugh  of  some  other  place, —  of  whom  we  shall  transiently 
hear  again. 

General  David  Lesley,  vigorous  for  flight  as  for  other  things, 
got  to  Edinburgh  by  nine  o'clock;  poor  old  Leven,  not  so  light  of 
movement,  did  not  get  till  two.  Tragical  enough.  What  a 
change  since  January  1644,  when  we  marched  out  of  this  same 
Dunbar  up  to  the  knees  in  snow!  It  was  to  help  and  save  these 
very  men  that  we  then  marched;  with  the  Covenant  in  all  our 
hearts.  We  have  stood  by  the  Letter  of  the  Covenant;  fought 
for  our  Covenanted  Stuart  King  as  we  could; — they  again,  they 
stand  by  the  substance  of  it,  and  have  trampled  us  and  the  letter 
of  it  into  this  ruinous  state! — Yes,  my  poor  friends; — and  now  be 
wise,  be  taught !  The  Letter  of  your  Covenant,  in  fact,  will  never 
rally  again  in  this  world.  The  spirit  and  substance  of  it,  please 
God,  will  never  die  in  this  or  in  any  world ! 

Such  is  Dunbar  Battle;  which  might  also  be  called  Dunbar 
Drove,  for  it  was  a  frightful  rout.  Brought  on  by  miscalculation ; 
misunderstanding  of  the  difference  between  substances  and  sem- 
blances;— by  mismanagement,  ^and  the  chance  of  war. 


JOHN  LOTHROP  MOTLEY  141 

JOHN  LOTHROP  MOTLEY 

1814-1877 
THE  RELIEF  OF  LEYDEN 

[From  The  Rise  of  the  Dutch  Republic,  1856, — the  history  of  the  struggle 
of  the  Netherlands,  under  the  leadership  of  WiUiam  of  Orange,  to  free 
themselves  from  the  rule  of  Philip  the  Second  of  Spain. 

The  first  siege — October  31,  1573,  to  March  21,  1574 — had  been 
raised  by  Louis  of  Nassau,  brother  of  WiUiam.  After  Louis's  death  at 
the  Battle  of  Mookerheyde,  Don  Frederick,  the  Spanish  commander,  • 
with  eight  thousand  troops  invested  the  city — May  26,  1574 — 
garrisoning  a  series  of  more  than  sixty  forts.  Leyden  stood  on  firm 
ground  protected  against  the  sea  by  great  dykes:  the  Land-Divider, 
the  Green- Way  and  the  Church- Way.  William's  plan  was  by  piercing 
these  dykes  to  let  in  the  sea,  and  so  by  means  of  the  fleet  under 
Admiral  Boisot  to  bring  reUef  to  the  besieged  city.  But  a  week  after 
the  cutting  of  the  outer  dykes  the  flotilla  lay  helpless  in  water  too 
shallow  to  float  her.  On  September  18,  however,  the  wind  shifting 
to  the  northwest  blew  a  gale,  driving  the  sea  in  over  the  flooded  land. 
The  fleet  could  proceed.] 

Meantime,  the  besieged  city  was  at  its  last  gasp.  The  burghers 
had  been  in  a  state  of  uncertainty  for  many  days;  being  aware 
that  the  fleet  had  set  forth  for  their  relief,  but  knowing  full  well 
the  thousand  obstacles  which  it  had  to  surmount.  They  had 
guessed  its  progress  by  the  illumination  from  the  blazing  vil- 
lages, they  had  heard  its  salvos  of  artillery  on  its  arrival  at  North 
Aa ;  but  since  then  all  had  been  dark  and  mournful  again,  hope 
and  fear,  in  sickening  alternation,  distracting  every  breast. 
They  knew  that  the  wind  was  unfavorable,  and  at  the  dawn  of 
each  day,  every  eye  was  turned  wistfully  to  the  vanes  of  the 
steeples.  So  long  as  the  easterly  breeze  prevailed,  they  felt,  as 
they  anxiously  stood  on  towers  and  housetops,  that  they  must 
look  in  vain  for  the  welcome  ocean. 

Yet,  while  thus  patiently  waiting,  they  were  literally  starving; 
for  even  the  misery  endured  at  Haarlem  had  not  reached  that 
depth  and  intensity  of  agony  to  which  Leyden  was  now  reduced. 


142  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

Bread,  malt  cake,  horse-flesh,  had  entirely  disappeared;  dogs, 
cats,  rats,  and  other  vermin,  were  esteemed  luxuries.  A  small 
number  of  cows,  kept  as  long  as  possible  for  their  milk,  still  re- 
mained; but  a  few  were  killed  from  day  to  day,  and  distributed 
in  minute  proportions,  hardly  sufficient  to  support  life  among  the 
famishing  population.  Starving  wretches  swarmed  daily  around 
the  shambles  where  these  cattle  were  slaughtered,  contending  for 
any  morsel  which  might  fall,  and  lapping  eagerly  the  blood  as  it 
ran  along  the  pavement;  while  the  hides,  chopped  and  boiled, 
were  greedily  devoured.  Women  and  children,  all  day  long,  were 
seen  searching  gutters  and  dunghills  for  morsels  of  food,  which 
they  disputed  fiercely  with  the  famishing  dogs.  The  green  leaves 
were  stripped  from  the  trees,  every  living  herb  was  converted  into 
human  food,  but  these  expedients  could  not  avert  starvation. 

The  daily  mortality  was  frightful — infants  starved  to  death  on 
the  maternal  breasts,  which  famine  had  parched  and  withered; 
mothers  dropped  dead  in  the  streets,  with  their  dead  children  in 
their  arms.  In  many  a  house  the  watchmen,  in  their  rounds, 
found  a  whole  family  of  corpses,  father,  mother,  and  children, 
side  by  side,  for  a  disorder  called  the  plague,  naturally  engendered 
of  hardship  and  famine,  now  came,  as  if  in  kindness,  to  abridge 
the  agony  of  the  people.  The  pestilence  stalked  at  noonday 
through  the  city,  and  the  doomed  inhabitants  fell  like  grass 
beneath  its  scythe.  From  six  thousand  to  eight  thousand  human 
beings  sank  before  this  scourge  alone,  yet  the  people  reso- 
lutely held  out — women  and  men  mutually  encouraging  each 
other  to  resist  the  entrance  of  their  foreign  foe — an  evil  more 
horrible  than  pest  or  famine. 

The  missives  from  Valdez,  who  saw  more  vividly  than  the  be- 
sieged could  do,  the  uncertainty  of  his  own  position,  now  poured 
daily  into  the  city,  the  enemy  becoming  more  prodigal  of  his 
vows,  as  he  felt  that  the  ocean  might  yet  save  the  victims  from 
his  grasp.  The  inhabitants,  in  their  ignorance,  had  gradually 
abandoned  their  hopes  of  relief,  but  they  spurned  the  summons 


JOHN  LOTHROP  MOTLEY  143 

to  surrender.  Leyden  was  sublime  in  its  despair.  A  few  mur- 
murs were,  however,  occasionally  heard  at  the  steadfastness  of 
the  magistrates,  and  a  dead  body  was  placed  at  the  door  of  the 
burgomaster,  as  a  silent  witness  against  his  inflexibility. 

A  party  of  the  more  fainthearted  even  assailed  the  heroic 
Adrian  Van  der  Werff  with  threats  and  reproaches  as  he  passed 
through  the  streets.  A  crowd  had  gathered  around  him,  as  he 
reached  a  triangular  place  in  the  centre  of  the  town,  into  which 
many  of  the  principal  streets  emptied  themselves,  and  upon  one 
side  of  which  stood  the  Church  of  St.  Pancras,  with  its  high  brick 
tower  surmounted  by  two  pointed  turrets,  and  with  two  ancient 
lime  trees  at  its  entrance.  There  stood  the  burgomaster,  a  tall, 
haggard,  imposing  figure,  with  dark  visage,  and  a  tranquil  but 
commanding  eye.  He  waved  his  broad-leaved  felt  hat  for  silence, 
and  then  exclaimed,  in  language  which  has  been  almost  literally 
preserved:  ''What  would  ye,  my  friends?  Why  do  ye  murmur 
that  we  do  not  break  our  vows  and  surrender  the  city  to  the 
Spaniards?  a  fate  more  horrible  than  the  agony  which  she  now 
endures.  I  tell  you  I  have  made  an  oath  to  hold  the  city,  and 
may  God  give  me  strength  to  keep  my  oath!  I  can  die  but  once; 
whether  by  your  hands,  the  enemy's,  or  by  the  hand  of  God. 
My  own  fate  is  indifferent  to  me,  not  so  that  of  the  city  intrusted 
to  my  care.  I  know  that  we  shall  starve  if  not  soon  relieved; 
but  starvation  is  preferable  to  the  dishonored  death  which  is  the 
only  alternative.  Your  menaces  move  me  not ;  my  life  is  at  your 
disposal ;  here  is  my  sword,  plunge  it  into  my  breast,  and  divide 
my  flesh  among  you.  Take  my  body  to  appease  your  hunger, 
but  expect  no  surrender,  so  long  as  I  remain  alive." 

The  words  of  the  stout  burgomaster  inspired  a  new  courage  in 
the  hearts  of  those  who  heard  him,  and  a  shout  of  applause  and 
defiance  arose  from  the  famishing  but  enthusiastic  crowd.  They 
left  the  place,  after  exchanging  new  vows  of  fidelity  with  their 
magistrate,  and  again  ascended  tower  and  battlement  to  watch 
for  the  coming  fleet.    From  the  ramparts  they  hurled  renewed 


144  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

defiance  at  the  enemy.  "Ye  call  us  rat-eaters  and  dog-eaters," 
they  cried,  "and  it  is  true.  So  long,  then,  as  ye  hear  dog  bark 
or  cat  mew  within  the  walls,  ye  may  know  that  the  city  holds  out. 
And  when  all  has  perished  but  ourselves,  be  sure  that  we  will 
each  devour  our  left  arms,  retaining  our  right  to  defend  our  wo- 
men, our  liberty,  and  our  religion,  against  the  foreign  tyrant. 
Should  God,  in  his  wrath,  doom  us  to  destruction,  and  deny  us 
all  reUef,  even  then  we  will  maintain  ourselves  forever  against 
your  entrance.  When  the  last  hour  has  come,  with  our  own 
hands  we  will  set  fire  to  the  city,  and  perish,  men,  women,  and 
children  together  in  the  flames,  rather  than  suffer  our  homes  to 
be  polluted  and  our  liberties  to  be  crushed."  Such  words  of 
defiance,  thundered  daily  from  the  battlements,  suflaciently  in- 
formed Valdez  as  to  his  chance  of  conquering  the  city,  either  by 
force  or  fraud,  but  at  the  same  time,  he  felt  comparatively  re- 
lieved by  the  inactivity  of  Boisot's  fleet,  which  still  lay  stranded 
at  North  Aa.  "As  well,"  shouted  the  Spaniards,  derisively,  to  the 
citizens,  "as  well  can  the  Prince  of  Orange  pluck  the  stars  from 
the  sky  as  bring  the  ocean  to  the  walls  of  Ley  den  for  your  relief." 

On  the  28th  of  September,  a  dove  flew  into  the  city,  bringing 
a  letter  from  Admiral  Boisot.  In  this  despatch,  the  position  of 
the  fleet  at  North  Aa  was  described  in  encouraging  terms,  and 
the  inhabitants  were  assured  that,  in  a  very  few  days  at  furthest, 
the  long-expected  relief  would  enter  their  gates.  The  letter  was 
read  publicly  upon  the  market-place,  and  the  bells  were  rung  for 
joy.  Nevertheless,  on  the  morrow,  the  vanes  pointed  to  the 
east,  the  waters,  so  far  from  rising,  continued  to  sink,  and  Ad- 
miral Boisot  was  almost  in  despair.  He  wrote  to  the  Prince, 
that  if  the  spring-tide,  now  to  be  expected,  should  not,  together 
with  a  strong  and  favorable  wind,  come  immediately  to  their 
relief,  it  would  be  in  vain  to  attempt  anything  further,  and  that 
the  expedition  would,  of  necessity,  be  abandoned. 

The  tempest  came  to  their  relief.  A  violent  equinoctial  gale, 
on  the  night  of  the  ist  and  2d  of  October,  came  storming  from 


JOHN  LOTHROP  MOTLEY  145 

the  northwest,  shifting  after  a  few  hours  full  eight  points,  and 
then  blowing  still  more  violently  from  the  southwest.  The 
waters  of  the  North  Sea  were  piled  in  vast  masses  upon  the  south- 
ern coast  of  Holland,  and  then  dashed  furiously  landward,  the 
ocean  rising  over  the  earth,  and  sweeping  with  unrestrained 
power  across  the  ruined  dykes. 

In  the  course  of  twenty-four  hours,  the  fleet  at  North  Aa,  in- 
stead of  nine  inches,  had  more  than  two  feet  of  water.  No  time 
was  lost.  The  Kirk-way,  which  had  been  broken  through 
according  to  the  Prince's  instructions,  was  now  completely  over- 
flowed, and  the  fleet  sailed  at  midnight,  in  the  midst  of  the  storm 
and  darkness.  A  few  sentinel  vessels  of  the  enemy  challenged 
them  as  they  steadily  rowed  toward  Zoeterwoude. 

The  answer  was  a  flash  from  Boisot's  cannon,  lighting  up  the 
black  waste  of  waters.  There  was  a  fierce  naval  midnight  battle; 
a  strange  spectacle  among  the  branches  of  those  quiet  orchards, 
and  with  the  chimney  stacks  of  half-submerged  farmhouses  ris- 
ing around  the  contending  vessels.  The  neighboring  village  of 
Zoeterwoude  shook  with  the  discharges  of  the  Zealanders'  can- 
non, and  the  Spaniards  assembled  in  that  fortress  knew  that  the 
rebel  Admiral  was  at  last  afloat  and  on  his  course.  The  enemy's 
vessels  were  soon  sunk,  their  crews  hurled  into  the  waves.  On 
went  the  fleet,  sweeping  over  the  broad  waters  which  lay  between 
Zoeterwoude  and  Zwieten.  As  they  approached  some  shallows, 
which  led  into  the  great  mere,  the  Zealanders  dashed  into 
the  sea,  and  with  sheer  strength  shouldered  every  vessel 
through. 

Two  obstacles  lay  still  in  their  path — the  forts  of  Zoeterwoude 
and  Lammen,  distant  from  the  city  five  hundred  and  two  hundred 
and  fifty  yards  respectively.  Strong  redoubts,  both  well  sup- 
plied with  troops  and  artillery,  they  were  likely  to  give  a  rough 
reception  to  the  light  flotilla,  but  the  panic,  which  had  hitherto 
driven  their  foes  before  the  advancing  patriots,  had  reached 
Zoeterwoude.    Hardly  was  the  fleet  in  sight  when  the  Spaniards, 


146  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

in  the  early  morning,  poured  out  from  the  fortress,  and  fled 
precipitately  to  the  left,  along  a  road  which  led  in  a  westerly 
direction  toward  The  Hague.  Their  narrow  path  was  rapidly  van- 
ishing in  the  waves,  and  hundreds  sank  beneath  the  constantly 
deepening  and  treacherous  flood.  The  wild  Zealanders,  too, 
sprang  from  their  vessels  upon  the  crumbling  dyke  and  drove 
their  retreating  foes  into  the  sea.  They  hurled  their  harpoons 
at  them,  with  an  accuracy  acquired  in  many  a  polar  chase;  they 
plunged  into  the  waves  in  the  keen  pursuit,  attacking  them  with 
boat-hook  and  dagger.  The  numbers  who  thus  fell  beneath  these 
corsairs,  who  neither  gave  nor  took  quarter,  were  never  counted, 
but  probably  not  less  than  a  thousand  perished.  The  rest 
effected  their  escape  to  The  Hague. 

The  first  fortress  was  thus  seized,  dismantled,  set  on  fire,  and 
passed,  and  a  few  strokes  of  the  oars  brought  the  whole  fleet  close 
to  Lammen.  This  last  obstacle  rose  formidable  and  frowning 
directly  across  their  path.  Swarming  as  it  was  with  soldiers,  and 
bristling  with  artillery,  it  seemed  to  defy  the  armada  either  to 
carry  it  by  storm  or  to  pass  under  its  guns  into  the  city.  It  ap- 
peared that  the  enterprise  was,  after  all,  to  founder  within  sight 
of  the  long  expecting  and  expected  haven.  Boisot  anchored  his 
fleet  within  a  respectful  distance,  and  spent  what  remained  of  the 
day  in  carefully  reconnoitring  the  fort,  which  seemed  only  too 
strong.  In  conjunction  with  Leyderdorp,  the  headquarters  of 
Valdez,  a  mile  and  a  half  distant  on  the  right,  and  within  a  mile  of 
the  city,  it  seemed  so  insuperable  an  impediment  that  Boisot 
wrote  in  despondent  tone  to  the  Prince  of  Orange.  He  announced 
his  intention  of  carrying  the  fort,  if  it  were  possible,  on  the  follow- 
ing morning,  but  if  obliged  to  retreat,  he  observed,  with  something 
like  despair,  that  there  would  be  nothing  for  it  but  to  wait  for 
another  gale  of  wind.  If  the  waters  should  rise  sufficiently  to 
enable  them  to  make  a  wide  detour,  it  might  be  possible,  if,  in  the 
meantime,  Leyden  did  not  starve  or  surrender,  to  enter  its  gates 
from  the  opposite  side. 


JOHN  LOTHROP  MOTLEY  147 

Meantime,  the  citizens  had  grown  wild  with  expectation.  A 
dove  had  been  despatched  by  Boisot,  informing  them  of  his  pre- 
cise position,  and  a  number  of  citizens  accompanied  the  burgo- 
master, at  nightfall,  toward  the  tower  of  Hengist. — "Yonder," 
cried  the  magistrate,  stretching  out  his  hand  toward  Lammen, 
'^yonder,  behind  that  fort,  are  bread  and  meat,  and  brethren  in 
thousands.  Shall  all  this  be  destroyed  by  the  Spanish  guns,  or 
shall  we  rush  to  the  rescue  of  our  friends?"  "We  will  tear  the 
fortress  to  fragments  with  our  teeth  and  nails,"  was  the  reply, 
"before  the  relief,  so  long  expected,  shall  be  wrested  from  us." 
It  was  resolved  that  a  sortie,  in  conjunction  with  the  operations  of 
Boisot,  should  be  made  against  Lammen  with  the  earliest  dawn. 

Night  descended  upon  the  scene,  a  pitch  dark  night,  full  of 
anxiety  to  the  Spaniards,  to  the  armada,  to  Leyden.  Strange 
sights  and  sounds  occurred  at  different  moments  to  bewilder 
the  anxious  sentinels.  A  long  procession  of  lights  issuing  from  the 
fort  was  seen  to  flit  across  the  black  face  of  the  waters,  in 
the  dead  of  night,  and  the  whole  of  the  city  wall,  between  the 
Cowgate  and  the  tower  of  Burgundy,  fell  with  a  loud  crash.  The 
horror-struck  citizens  thought  that  the  Spaniards  were  upon 
them  at  last;  the  Spaniards  imagined  the  noise  to  indicate  a 
desperate  sortie  of  the  citizens.  Everything  was  vague  and 
mysterious. 

Day  dawned,  at  length,  after  the  feverish  night,  and  the  Ad- 
miral prepared  for  the  assault.  Within  the  fortress  reigned  a 
death-like  stillness,  which  inspired  a  sickening  suspicion.  Had 
the  city,  indeed,  been  carried  in  the  night;  had  the  massacre  al- 
ready commenced ;  had  all  this  labor  and  audacity  been  expended 
in  vain?  Suddenly  a  man  was  descried,  wading  breast-high 
through  the  water  from  Lammen  toward  the  fleet,  while  at  the 
same  time,  one  solitary  boy  was  seen  to  wave  his  cap  from  the 
summit  of  the  fort. 

After  a  moment  of  doubt,  the  happy  mystery  was  solved.  The 
Spaniards  had  fled,  panic  struck,  during  the  darkness.    Their 


148  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

position  would  still  have  enabled  them,  with  firmness,  to  frustrate 
the  enterprise  of  the  patriots,  but  the  hand  of  God,  which  had 
sent  the  ocean  and  the  tempest  to  the  deliverance  of  Leyden, 
had  struck  her  enemies  with  terror  likewise.  The  lights  which  had 
been  seen  moving  during  the  night  were  the  lanterns  of  the  re- 
treating Spaniards,  and  the  boy  who  was  now  waving  his  tri- 
umphant signal  from  the  battlements  had  alone  witnessed  the 
spectacle.  So  confident  was  he  in  the  conclusion  to  which  it  led 
him,  that  he  had  volunteered  at  daybreak  to  go  thither  all  alone. 
The  magistrates,  fearing  a  trap,  hesitated  for  a  moment  to  be- 
lieve the  truth,  which  soon,  however,  became  quite  evident.  Val- 
dez,  flying  himself  from  Leyderdorp,  had  ordered  Colonel  Borgia 
to  retire  with  all  his  troops  from  Lammen. 

Thus,  the  Spaniards  had  retreated  at  the  very  moment  that  an 
extraordinary  accident  had  laid  bare  a  whole  side  of  the  city  for 
their  entrance.  The  noise  of  the  wall,  as  it  fell,  only  inspired 
them  with  fresh  alarm;  for  they  believed  that  the  citizens  had 
sallied  forth  in  the  darkness,  to  aid  the  advancing  flood  in  the 
work  of  destruction.  All  obstacles  being  now  removed,  the  fleet 
of  Boisot  swept  by  Lammen,  and  entered  the  city  on  the  morning 
of  the  3d  of  October.    Leyden  was  relieved. 

The  quays  were  lined  with  the  famishing  population,  as  the 
fleet  rowed  through  the  canals,  every  human  being  who  could 
stand,  coming  forth  to  greet  the  preservers  of  the  city.  Bread 
was  thrown  from  every  vessel  among  the  crowd.  The  poor  crea- 
tures who  for  two  months  had  tasted  no  wholesome  human  food, 
and  who  had  literally  been  living  within  the  jaws  of  death, 
snatched  eagerly  the  blessed  gift,  at  last  too  liberally  bestowed. 
Many  choked  themselves  to  death,  in  the  greediness  with  which 
they  devoured  their  bread ;  others  became  ill  with  the  effects  of 
plenty  thus  suddenly  succeeding  starvation; — but  these  were 
isolated  cases,  a  repetition  of  which  was  prevented. 


JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE  149 

JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE 

1818-1894 
THE  CANTERBURY  MARTYRDOM  1 

[From  the  "Life  and  Times  of  Thomas  Becket"   in  Short  Studies 
on  Great  Subjects,  1882. 

Upon  being  created  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  (11 55)  Thomas 
Becket,  who,  as  Chancellor  of  England,  had  been  King  Henry  the 
Second's  chief  supporter,  now  became  his  bitterest  opponent.  The  issue 
concerned  ecclesiastical  jurisdiction,  the  king  wishing  to  dominate  the 
church  and  to  govern  the  clergy.  Retracting  his  momentary  assent, 
Becket  fled  to  the  Continent  from  Henry's  resentment.  In  Becket's 
absence  the  king  had  the  prince,  his  son,  crowned  his  successor  by  the 
Archbishop  of  York,  thus  setting  aside  the  prerogative  of  Canterbury 
and  the  interdict  of  Becket.  On  the  eve  of  his  return  to  England  after 
an  absence  of  six  years,  Becket,  alleging  the  sanction  of  the  king  for  his 
act,  excommunicated  the  Archbishop  of  York,  the  Bishop  of  London 
and  the  Bishop  of  Salisbury  for  their  share  in  the  coronation.] 

The  story  now  turns  to  Henry's  court  in  Normandy.  Between 
Southampton  and  the  Norman  coast  communications  were  easy 
and  rapid;  and  the  account  of  the  arrival  of  the  censured  bishops, 
with  the  indignant  words  which  burst  from  the  king  at  the  un- 
welcome news  which  he  heard  from  them  for  the  first  time,  is  an 
imperfect  legend  in  which  the  transactions  of  many  days  must 
have  been  epitomized. 

The  bishops  did  not  leave  England  till  the  20th  or  21st  of 
December,  and  before  their  appearance  the  king  must  have 
heard  already  not  only  of  the  excommunications  and  of  the 
daring  misuse  of  his  own  name,  but  of  the  armed  progress  to 
London,  of  the  remarkable  demonstration  there,  of  the  arch- 
bishop's defiance  of  the  government,  of  the  mission  of  the  Abbot 
of  St.  Albans,  of  the  threats  of  the  priests,  and  of  the  imminent 
danger  of  a  general  rebellion.  During  the  first  three  weeks  of  this 
December  many  an  anxious  council  must  have  been  held  in  the 

^  Reprinted  by  kind  permission  of  Messrs.  Charies  Scribner's  Sons,  New  York. 


I50  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

Norman  court,  and  many  a  scheme  talked  over  and  rejected  for 
dealing  with  this  impracticable  firebrand.  What  could  b6  done 
with  him?  No  remedy  was  now  available  but  a  violent  one.  The 
law  could  not  restrain  a  man  \yho  claimed  to  be  superior  to  law, 
and  whose  claims  the  nation  was  not  prepared  directly  to  deny. 
Three  centuries  later  the  solution  would  have  been  a  formal  trial, 
with  the  block  and  axe  as  the  sequel  of  a  judicial  sentence. 
Ecclesiastical  pretensions  were  still  formidable  under  the  Tudors, 
but  the  State  had  acquired  strength  to  control  them.  In  our  own 
day  the  phantom  has  been  exorcised  altogether,  and  an  arch- 
bishop who  used  Becket's  language  would  be  consigned  to  an 
asylum.  In  Becket's  own  time  neither  of  these  methods  was 
possible.  Becket  himself  could  neither  be  borne  with,  consist- 
ently with  the  existence  of  the  civil  government,  nor  resisted  save 
at  a  risk  of  censures  which  even  the  king  scarcely  dared  to  en- 
counter. A  bishop  might  have  committed  the  seven  deadly  sins, 
but  his  word  was  still  a  spell  which  could  close  the  gates  of  heaven. 
The  allegiance  of  the  people  could  not  be  depended  upon  for  a 
day  if  Becket  chose  to  declare  the  king  excommunicated,  unless 
the  pope  should  interfere;  and  the  pope  was  an  inadequate  re- 
source in  a  struggle  for  the  supremacy  of  the  Church  over  the 
State.  It  was  not  until  secular  governments  could  look  popes  and 
bishops  in  the  face,  and  bid  them  curse  till  they  were  tired,  that 
the  relations  of  Church  and  State  admitted  of  legal  definition. 
Till  that  time  should  arrive  the  ecclesiastical  theory  was  only 
made  tolerable  by  submitting  to  the  checks  of  tacit  compromise 
and  practical  good  sense. 

Necessities  for  compromises  of  this  kind  exist  at  all  times.  In 
the  most  finished  constitutions  powers  are  assigned  to  the  dif- 
ferent branches  of  the  State  which  it  would  be  inconvenient  or 
impossible  to  remove,  yet  which  would  cause  an  immediate 
catastrophe  if  the  theory  were  made  the  measure  of  practice. 
The  Crown  retains  prerogatives  at  present  which  would  be 
fatal  to  it  if  strained.    Parliament  would  make  itself  intolerable 


JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE  151 

if  it  asserted  the  entire  privileges  which  it  legally  possesses. 
The  clergy  in  the  twelfth  century  were  allowed  and  beHeved 
to  be  ministers  of  God  in  a  sense  in  which  neither  Crown  nor 
baron  dared  appropriate  the  name  to  themselves.  None  the  less 
the  clergy  could  not  be  allowed  to  reduce  Crown  and  barons 
into  entire  submission  to  their  own  pleasure.  If  either  church- 
man or  king  broke  the  tacit  bargain  of  mutual  moderation  which 
enabled  them  to  work  together  harmoniously,  the  relations 
between  the  two  orders  might  not  admit  of  more  satisfactory 
theoretic  adjustment;  but  there  remained  the  resource  to  put 
out  of  the  way  the  disturber  of  the  peace. 

Fuel  ready  to  kindle  was  lying  dry  throughout  Henry's  domin- 
ions. If  Becket  was  to  be  allowed  to  fling  about  excommunica- 
tions at  his  own  pleasure,  to  travel  through  the  country  attended 
by  knights  in  arms,  and  surrounded  by  adoring  fools  who  re- 
garded him  as  a  supernatural  being,  it  was  easy  to  foresee  the 
immediate  future  of  England  and  of  half  France.  To  persons, 
too,  who  knew  the  archbishop  as  well  as  Henry's  court  knew  him, 
the  character  of  the  man  himself  who  was  causing  so  much  anx- 
iety must  have  been  peculiarly  irritating.  Had  Becket  been  an 
Anselm,  he  might  have  been  credited  with  a  desire  to  promote 
the  interests  of  the  Church,  not  for  power's  sake,  but  for  the 
sake  of  those  spiritual  and  moral  influences  which  the  Catholic 
Church  was  still  able  to  exert,  at  least  in  some  happy  instances. 
But  no  such  high  ambition  was  to  be  traced  either  in  Becket's 
agitation  or  in  Becket's  own  disposition.  He  was  still  the  self- 
willed,  violent  chancellor,  with  the  dress  of  the  saint  upon  him, 
but  not  the  nature.  His  cause  was  not  the  mission  of  the  Church 
to  purify  and  elevate  mankind,  but  the  privilege  of  the  Church  to 
control  the  civil  government,  and  to  dictate  the  law  in  virtue  of 
magical  powers  which  we  now  know  to  have  been  a  dream  and  a 
delusion.  His  personal  religion  was  not  the  religion  of  a  regen- 
erated heart,  but  the  religion  of  self-torturing  asceticism,  a  re- 
ligion of  the  scourge  and  the  hair  shirt,  a  religion  in  which  the 


152  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

evidences  of  grace  were  to  be  traced  not  in  humbleness  and  truth, 
but  in  the  worms  and  maggots  which  crawled  about  his  body. 
He  was  the  impersonation  not  of  what  was  highest  and  best  in 
the  Catholic  Church,  but  of  what  was  falsest  and  worst.  The 
fear  which  he  inspired  was  not  the  reverence  willingly  offered  to 
a  superior  nature,  but  a  superstitious  terror  like  that  felt  for 
witches  and  enchanters,  which  brave  men  at  the  call  of  a  higher 
duty  could  dare  to  defy. 

No  one  knows  what  passed  at  Bayeux  4uring  the  first  weeks  of 
that  December.  King  and  council,  knights  and  nobles,  squires  and 
valets  must  have  talked  of  little  else  but  Becket  and  his  doings. 
The  pages  at  Winchester  laid  their  hands  on  their  dagger-hilts 
when  the  priest  delivered  his  haughty  message.  The  peers  and 
gentlemen  who  surrounded  Henry  at  Bayeux  are  not  likely  to 
have  felt  more  gently  as  each  day  brought  news  from  England 
of  some  fresh  audacity.  At  length,  a  few  days  before  Christmas, 
the  three  bishops  arrived.  Two  were  under  the  curse,  and  could 
not  be  admitted  into  the  king's  presence.  The  Archbishop  of 
York,  being  only  suspended,  carried  less  contamination  with  him. 
At  a  council  the  archbishop  was  introduced,  and  produced  Alex- 
ander's^ letters.  From  these  it  appeared  not  only  that  he  and  the 
other  bishops  were  denounced  by  name,  but  that  every  person 
who  had  taken  any  part  in  the  young  king's  coronation  was  by 
implication  excommunicated  also.  It  is  to  be  remembered  that 
the  king  had  received  a  positive  sanction  for  the  coronation  from 
Alexander;  that  neither  he  nor  the  bishops  had  received  the 
prohibition  till  the  ceremony  was  over;  while  there  is  reason  to 
believe  that  the  prohibitory  letter,  which  the  king  might  have 
respected,  had  been  kept  back  by  Becket  himself. 

The  Archbishop  of  York  still  advised  forbearance,  and  an 
appeal  once  more  to'  Rome.  The  pope  would  see  at  last  what 
Becket  really  was,  and  would  relieve  the  country  of  him.  But 
an  appeal  to  Rome  would  take  time,  and  England  meanwhile 

1  The  Pope. 


JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE  153 

might  be  in  flames.  'By  God's  eyes,'  said  the  king,  'if  all  are 
excommunicated  who  were  concerned  in  the  coronation,  I  am 
excommunicated  also.'  Some  one  (the  name  of  tKe  speaker  is 
not  mentioned)  said  that  there  would  be  no  peace  while  Becket 
lived.  With  the  fierce  impatience  of  a  man  baffled  by  a  problem 
which  he  has  done  his  best  to  solve,  and  has  failed  through  no 
fault  of  his  own,  Henry  is  reported  to  have  exclaimed:  'Is  this 
varlet  that  I  loaded  with  kindness,  that  came  first  to  court  to  me 
on  a  lame  mule,  to  insult  me  and  my  children,  and  take  my  crown 
f  rom'me?  What  cowards  have  I  about  me,  that  no  one  will  deliver 
me  from  this  lowborn  priest! '  It  is  very  likely  that  Henry  used 
such  words.  The  greatest  prince  that  ever  sat  on  throne,  if  tried 
as  Henry  had  been,  would  have  said  the  same;  and  Henry  had 
used  almost  the  same  language  to  the  bishops  at  Chinon  in  11 66. 
But  it  is  evident  that  much  is  still  untold.  These  passionate 
denunciations  can  have  been  no  more  than  the  outcome  of  long 
and  ineffectual  deliberation.  Projects  must  have  been  talked 
over  and  rejected;  orders  were  certainly  conceived  which  were 
to  be  sent  to  the  archbishop,  and  measures  were  devised  for  deal- 
ing with  him  short  of  his  death.  He  was  to  be  required  to  absolve 
the  censured  bishops.  If  he  refused,  he  might  be  sent  in  custody 
to  the  young  king,  he  might  be  brought  to  Normandy,  he  might 
be  exiled  from  the  EngUsh  dominions,  or  he  might  be  imprisoned 
in  some  English  castle.  Indications  can  be  traced  of  all  these 
plans;  and  something  of  the  kind  would  probably  have  been  re- 
solved upon,  although  it  must  have  been  painfully  clear  also  that, 
without  the  pope's  help,  none  of  them  would  really  meet  the 
difficulty.  But  the  result  was  that  the  king's  friends,  seeing  their 
master's  perplexity,  determined  to  take  the  risk  on  themselves, 
and  deliver  both  him  and  their  country.  If  the  king  acted,  the 
king  might  be  excommunicated,  and  the  empire  might  be  laid 
under  interdict,  with  the  consequences  which  every  one  foresaw. 
For  their  own  acts  the  penalty  would, but  fall  upon  themselves. 
They  did  not  know,  perhaps,  distinctly  what  they  meant  to  do. 


154  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

but  something  might  have  to  be  done  which  the  king  must 
condemn  if  they  proposed  it  to  him. 

But  being  done  unknown, 
He  would  have  found  it  afterwards  well  done. 

Impetuous  loyalty  to  the  sovereign  was  in  the  spirit  of  the  age. 

Among  the  gentlemen  about  his  person  whom  Henry  had  in- 
tended to  employ,  could  he  have  resolved  upon  the  instructions 
which  were  to  be  given  to  them,  were  four  knights  of  high  birth 
and  large  estate — Sir  Reginald  Fitzurse,  of  Somersetshire,  a 
tenant  in  chief  of  the  Crown,  whom  Becket  himself  had  originally 
introduced  into  the  court;  Sir  Hugh  de  Morville,  custodian  of 
Knaresborough  Castle,  and  justiciary  of  Northumberland;  Sir 
William  de  Tracy,  half  a  Saxon,  with  royal  blood  in  him;  and  Sir 
Richard  le  Breton,  who  had  been  moved  to  volunteer  in  the 
service  by  another  instance  of  Becket's  dangerous  meddling. 
Le  Breton  was  a  friend  of  the  king's  brother  WilUam,  whom  the 
archbishop  had  separated  from  the  lady  to  whom  he  was  about 
to  be  married  on  some  plea  of  consanguinity.  Sir  William  de 
Mandeville  and  others  were  to  have  been  joined  in  the  commis- 
sion. But  these  four  chose  to  anticipate  both  their  companions 
and  their  final  orders,  and  started  alone.  Their  disappearance 
was  observed.  An  express  was  sent  to  recall  them,  and  the  king 
supposed  that  they  had  returned.  But  they  had  gone  by  separate 
routes  to  separate  ports.  The  weather  was  fair  for  the  season  of 
the  year,  with  an  east  wind  perhaps;  and  each  had  found  a  vessel 
without  difl&culty  to  carry  him  across  the  Channel.  The  rendez- 
vous was  Sir  Ranulf  de  B roc's  castle  of  Saltwood,  near  Hythe, 
thirteen  miles  from  Canterbury. 

The  archbishop  meanwhile  had  returned  from  his  adventurous 
expedition.  The  young  king  and  his  advisers  had  determined  to 
leave  him  no  fair  cause  of  complaint,  and  had  sent  orders  for  the 
restoration  of  his  wine  and  the  release  of  the  captured  seamen; 
but  the  archbishop  would  not  wait  for  the  State  to  do  him  justice. 


JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE  155 

On  Christmas  Eve  he  was  further  exasperated  by  the  appearance 
at  the  gate  of  his  palace  of  one  of  his  sumpter  mules,  which  had 
been  brutally  mutilated  by  Sir  Ranulf  de  Broc's  kinsman  Robert. 
'The  viper's  brood,'  as  Herbert  de  Bosham  said,  'were  lifting  up 
their  heads.  The  hornets  were  out.  Bulls  of  Bashan  compassed 
the  archbishop  round  about.'  The  Earl  of  Cornwall's  warning 
had  reached  him,  but  'fight,  not  flight,'  was  alone  in  his  thoughts. 
He,  too,  was  probably  weary  of  the  strife,  and  may  have  felt  that 
he  would  serve  his  cause  more  effectually  by  death  than  by  life. 
On  Christmas  day  he  preached  in  the  cathedral  on  the  text '  Peace 
to  men  of  good  will.'  There  was  no  peace,  he  said,  except  to  men 
of  good  will.  He  spoke  passionately  of  the  trials  of  the  Church. 
As  he  drew  towards  an  end  he  alluded  to  the  possibility  of  his 
own  martyrdom.  He  could  scarcely  articulate  for  tears.  The 
congregation  were  sobbing  round  him.  Suddenly  his  face  altered, 
his  tone  changed.  Glowing  with  anger,  with  the  fatal  candles  in 
front  of  him,  and  in  a  voice  of  thunder,  the  solemn  and  the  absurd 
strangely  blended  in  the  overwhelming  sense  of  his  own  wrongs, 
he  cursed  the  intruders  into  his  churches;  he  cursed  Sir  Ranulf  de 
Broc;  he  cursed  Robert  de  Broc  for  cutting  off  his  mule's  tail; 
he  cursed  by  name  several  of  the  old  king's  most  intimate  coun- 
cillors who  were  at  the  court  in  Normandy.  At  each  fierce  im- 
precation he  quenched  a  light,  and  dashed  down  a  candle.  'As 
he  spoke,'  says  the  enthusiastic  Herbert,  repeating  the  figure 
under  which  he  had  described  his  master's  appearance  at  North- 
ampton, 'you  saw  the  very  beast  of  the  prophet's  vision,  with  the 
face  of  a  lion  and  the  face  of  a  man.'  He  had  drawn  the  spiritual 
sword,  as  he  had  sworn  that  he  would.  So  experienced  a  man  of 
the  world  could  not  have  failed  to  foresee  that  he  was  provoking 
passions  which  would  no  longer  respect  his  office,  and  that  no 
rising  in  England  would  now  be  in  time  to  save  him.  He  was  in 
better  spirits,  it  was  observed,  after  he  had  discharged  his  anath- 
ema. The  Christmas  festival  was  held  in  the  hall.  Asceticism 
was  a  virtue  which  was  never  easy  to  him.    He  indulged  his 


156  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

natural  inclinations  at  all  permitted  times,  and  on  this  occasion 
he  ate  and  drank  more  copiously  than  usual. 

The  next  day  Becket  received  another  warning  that  he  was  in 
personal  danger.  He  needed  no  friends  to  tell  him  that.  The 
only  attention  which  he  paid  to  these  messages  was  to  send  his 
secretary  Herbert  and  his  cross-bearer  Alexander  Llewellyn  to 
France,  to  report  his  situation  to  Lewis  and  to  the  Archbishop 
of  Sens.i  He  told  Herbert  at  parting  that  he  would  see  his  face 
no  more. 

So  passed  at  Canterbury  Saturday,  Sunday,  and  Monday,  the 
26th,  27th,  and  28th  of  December.  On  that  same  Monday  after- 
noon the  four  knights  arrived  at  Saltwood.  They  were  expected, 
for  Sir  Ranulf  with  a  party  of  men-at-arms  had  gone  to  meet 
them.  There  on  their  arrival  they  learned  the  fresh  excommuni- 
cations which  had  been  pronounced  against  their  host  and 
against  their  friends  at  the  court.  The  news  could  only  have 
confirmed  whatever  resolutions  they  had  formed. 

On  the  morning  of  the  29  th  they  rode  with  an  escort  of  horse 
along  the  old  Roman  road  to  Canterbury.  They  halted  at 
St.  Augustine's  Monastery,  where  they  were  entertained  by  the 
abbot  elect,  Becket's  old  enemy,  the  scandalous  Clarembald. 
They  perhaps  dined  there.  At  any  rate  they  issued  a  proclama- 
tion bidding  the  inhabitants  remain  quiet  in  their  houses  in  the 
king's  name,  and  then,  with  some  of  Clarembald's  armed  serv- 
ants in  addition  to  their  own  party,  they  went  on  to  the  great 
gate  of  the  archbishop's  palace.  Leaving  their  men  outside,  the 
four  knights  alighted  and  entered  the  court.  They  unbuckled 
their  swords,  leaving  them  at  the  lodge,  and,  throwing  gowns  over 
their  armour,  they  strode  across  to  the  door  of  the  hall.  Their 
appearance  could  hardly  have  been  unexpected.  It  was  now 
three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.    They  had  been  some  time  in  the 

[^  One  of  his  complaints,  presented  by  the  Abbot  of  St.  Albans,  had  been  that  his 
clergy  were  not  allowed  to  leave  the  realm.  There  seems  to  have  been  no  practical 
difficulty. — Author's  Note.] 


JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE  157 

town,  and  their  arrival  could  not  fail  to  have  been  reported. 
The  archbishop's  midday  meal  was  over.  The  servants  were 
dining  on  the  remains,  and  the  usual  company  of  mendicants 
were  waiting  for  their  turn.  The  archbishop  had  been  again  dis- 
turbed at  daybreak  by  intimation  of  danger.  He  had  advised 
any  of  his  clergy  who  were  afraid  to  escape  to  Sandwich;  but 
none  of  them  had  left  him.  He  had  heard  mass  as  usual.  He 
had  received  his  customary  floggings.  At  dinner,  he  observed, 
when  some  one  remarked  on  his  drinking,  that  a  man  that  had 
blood  to  lose  needed  wine  to  support  him.  Afterwards  he  had 
retired  into  an  inner  room  with  John  of  Salisbury,  his  chaplain 
Fitzstephen,  Edward  Grim  of  Cambridge,  who  was  on  a  visit  to 
him,  and  several  others,  and  was  now  sitting  in  conversation 
with  them  in  the  declining  light  of  the  winter  afternoon  till  the 
bell  should  ring  for  vespers. 

The  knights  were  recognized,  when  they  entered  the  hall,  as 
belonging  to  the  old  king's  court.  The  steward  invited  them  to 
eat.  They  declined,  and  desired  him  to  inform  the  archbishop 
that  they  had  arrived  with  a  message  from  the  court.  This  was 
the  first  communication  which  the  archbishop  had  received  from. 
Henry  since  he  had  used  his  name  so  freely  to  cover  acts  which, 
could  Henry  have  anticipated  them,  would  have  barred  his  re- 
turn to  Canterbury  for  ever.  The  insincere  professions  of  peace 
had  covered  an  intention  of  provoking  a  rebellion.  The  truth 
was  now  plain.  There  was  no  room  any  more  for  excuse  or 
palliation.    What  course  had  the  king  determined  on? 

The  knights  were  introduced.  They  advanced.  The  arch- 
bishop neither  spoke  nor  looked  at  them,  but  continued  talking 
to  a  monk  who  was  next  to  him.  He  himseK  was  sitting  on  a  bed. 
The  rest  of  the  party  present  were  on  the  floor.  The  knights 
seated  themselves  in  the  same  manner,  and  for  a  few  moments 
there  was  silence.  Then  Becket's  black  restless  eye  glanced  from 
one  to  the  other.  He  slightly  noticed  Tracy;  and  Fitzurse  said  a 
few  unrecorded  sentences  to  him,  which  ended  with  'God  help 


158  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

you!'  To  Becket's  friends  the  words  sounded  like  insolence. 
They  may  have  meant  no  more  than  pity. 

Becket's  face  flushed.  Fitzurse  went  on:  'We  bring  you  the 
commands  of  the  king  beyond  the  sea;  will  you  hear  us  in  public 
or  in  private?'  Becket  said  he  cared  not.  'In  private,  then/ 
said  Fitzurse.  The  monks  thought  afterwards  that  Fitzurse  had 
meant  to  kill  the  archbishop  where  he  sat.  If  the  knights  had 
entered  the  palace,  thronged  as  it  was  with  men,  with  any  such 
intention,  they  would  scarcely  have  left  their  swords  behind 
them.  The  room  was  cleared,  and  a  short  altercation  followed, 
of  which  nothing  is  known  save  that  it  ended  speedily  in  high 
words  on  both  sides.  Becket  called  in  his  clergy  again,  his  lay 
servants  being  excluded,  and  bade  Fitzurse  go  on.  'Be  it  so,' 
Sir  Reginald  said.  'Listen  then  to  what  the  king  says.  When 
the  peace  was  made,  he  put  aside  all  his  complaints  against  you. 
He  allowed  you  to  return,  as  you  desired,  free  to  your  see.  You  have 
now  added  contempt  to  your  other  offences.  You  have  broken 
the  treaty.  Your  pride  has  tempted  you  to  defy  your  lord  and 
master  to  your  own  sorrow.  You  have  censured  the  bishops  by 
whose  ministration  the  prince  was  crowned.  You  have  pro- 
nounced an  anathema  against  the  king's  ministers,  by  whose 
advice  he  is  guided  in  the  management  of  the  Empire.  You  have 
made  it  plain  that  if  you  could  you  would  take  the  prince's  crown 
from  him.  Your  plots  and  contrivances  to  attain  your  ends  are 
notorious  to  all  men.  Say,  then,  will  you  attend  us  to  the  king's 
presence,  and  there  answer  for  yourself?    For  this  we  are  sent.' 

The  archbishop  declared  that  he  had  never  wished  any  hurt  to 
the  prince.  The  king  had  no  occasion  to  be  displeased  if  crowds 
came  about  him  in  the  towns  and  cities  after  they  had  been  so 
long  deprived  of  his  presence.  If  he  had  done  any  wrong  he 
would  make  satisfaction,  but  he  protested  against  being  suspected 
of  intentions  which  had  never  entered  his  mind. 

Fitzurse  did  not  enter  into  an  altercation  with  him,  but  con- 
tinued: 'The  king  commands  further  that  you  and  your  clerks 


JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE  159 

repair  without  delay  to  the  young  king's  presence,  and  swear 
allegiance,  and  promise  to  amend  your  faults.' 

The  archbishop's  temper  was  rising.  'I  will  do  whatever  may 
be  reasonable,'  he  said;  ' but  I  tell  you  plainly  the  king  shall  have 
no  oaths  from  me,  nor  from  any  one  of  my  clergy.  There  has 
been  too  much  perjury  already.  I  have  absolved  many,  with 
God's  help,  who  had  perjured  themselves.  I  will  absolve  the 
rest  when  He  permits.' 

'I  understand  you  to  say  that  you  will  not  obey,'  said  Fitz- 
urse;  and  went  on  in  the  same  tone:  'The  king  commands  you 
to  absolve  the  bishops  whom  you  have  excommunicated  without 
his  permission  {absque  licentid  sud).^ 

'The  pope  sentenced  the  bishops,'  the  archbishop  said.  'If 
you  are  not  pleased,  you  must  go  to  him.  The  affair  is  none 
of  mine.' 

Fitzurse  said  it  had  been  done  at  his  instigation,  which  he  did 
not  deny;  but  he  proceeded  to  reassert  that  the  king  had  given 
him  permission.  He  had  complained  at  the  time  of  the  peace  of 
the  injury  which  he  had  suffered  in  the  coronation,  and  the  king 
had  told  him  that  he  might  obtain  from  the  pope  any  satisfac- 
tion for  which  he  Hked  to  ask. 

If  this  was  all  the  consent  which  the  king  had  given,  the  pre- 
tence of  his  authority  was  inexcusable.  'Ay,  ay!'  said  Fitzurse; 
'will  you  make  the  king  out  to  be  a  traitor,  then?  The  king  gave 
you  leave  to  excommunicate  the  bishops  when  they  were  acting 
by  his  own  order!  It  is  more  than  we  can  bear  to  listen  to  such 
monstrous  accusations.' 

John  of  SaUsbury  tried  to  check  the  archbishop's  imprudent 
tongue,  and  whispered  to  him  to  speak  to  the  knights  in  private; 
but  when  the  passion  was  on  him,  no  mule  was  more  ungovern- 
able than  Becket.  Drawing  to  a  conclusion,  Fitzurse  said  to 
him:  'Since  you  refuse  to  do  any  one  of  those  things  which  the 
king  requires  of  you,  his  final  commands  are  that  you  and  your 
clergy  shall  forthwith  depart  out  of  this  realm  and  out  of  his 


i6o  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

dominions,  never  more  to  return.  You  have  broken  the  peace, 
and  the  king  cannot  trust  you  again.' 

Becket  answered  wildly  that  he  would  not  go — never  again 
would  he  leave  England.  Nothing  but  death  should  now  part 
him  from  his  church.  Stung  by  the  reproach  of  ill-faith,  he 
poured  out  the  catalogue  of  his  own  injuries.  He  had  been  prom- 
ised restoration,  and  instead  of  restoration  he  had  been  robbed 
and  insulted.  Ranulf  de  Broc  had  laid  an  embargo  on  his  wine. 
Robert  de  Broc  had  cut  off  his  mule's  tail,  and  now  the  knights 
had  come  to  menace  him. 

De  Morville  said  that  if  he  had  suffered  any  wrong,  he  had 
only  to  appeal  to  the  council,  and  justice  would  be  done. 

Becket  did  not  wish  for  the  coimcil's  justice.  *I  have  com- 
plained enough,'  he  said;  '  so  many  wrongs  are  daily  heaped  upon 
me  that  I  could  not  find  messengers  to  carry  the  tale  of  them.  I 
am  refused  access  to  the  court.  Neither  one  king  nor  the  other 
will  do  me  right.  I  will  endure  it  no  more.  I  will  use  my  own 
powers  as  archbishop,  and  no  child  of  man  shall  prevent  me.' 

'You  will  lay  the  realm  under  interdict  then,  and  excommuni- 
cate the  whole  of  us?'  said  Fitzurse. 

'So  God  help  me,'  said  one  of  the  others,  'he  shall  not  do  that. 
He  has  excommunicated  over-many  already.  We  have  borne  too 
long  with  him.' 

The  knights  sprang  to  their  feet,  twisting  their  gloves  and 
swinging  their  arms.  The  archbishop  rose.  In  the  general  noise 
words  could  no  longer  be  accurately  heard.  At  length  the  knights 
moved  to  leave  the  room,  and,  addressing  the  archbishop's 
attendants,  said,  '  In  the  king's  name  we  command  you  to  see 
that  this  man  does  not  escape.' 

'  Do  you  think  I  shall  fly,  then?'  cried  the  archbishop.  'Neither 
for  the  king  nor  for  any  living  man  will  I  fly.  You  cannot  be 
more  ready  to  kill  me  than  I  am  to  die.  .  .  .  Here  you  will 
find  me,'  he  shouted,  following  them  to  the  door  as  they  went 
out,  and  calling  after  them.    Some  of  his  friends  thought  that  he 


JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE  i6i 

had  asked  De  Morville  to  come  back  and  speak  quietly  with 
him,  but  it  was  not  so.  He  returned  to  his  seat  still  excited  and 
complaining. 

'My  lord,'  said  John  of  Salisbury  to  him,  'it  is  strange  that  you 
will  never  be  advised.  What  occasion  was  there  for  you  to  go 
after  these  men  and  exasperate  them  with  your  bitter  speeches? 
You  would  have  done  better  surely  by  being  quiet  and  giv- 
ing them  a  milder  answer.  They  mean  no  good,  and  you  only 
commit  yourself.' 

The  archbishop  sighed,  and  said,  'I  have  done  with  advice. 
I  know  what  I  have  before  me.' 

It  must  have  been  now  past  four  o'clock;  and  unless  there 
were  lights  the  room  was  almost  dark.  Beyond  the  archbishop's 
chamber  was  an  ante-room,  beyond  the  ante-room  the  hall. 
The  knights,  passing  through  the  hall  into  the  quadrangle,  and 
thence  to  the  lodge,  called  their  men  to  arms.  The  great  gate 
was  closed.  A  mounted  guard  was  stationed  outside  with  orders 
to  allow  no  one  to  go  out  or  in.  The  knights  threw  off  their 
cloaks  and  buckled  on  their  swords.  This  was  the  work  of  a  few 
minutes.  From  the  cathedral  tower  the  vesper  bell  was  begin- 
ning to  sound.  The  archbishop  had  seated  himself  to  recover 
from  the  agitation  of  the  preceding  scene,  when  a  breathless 
monk  rushed  in  to  say  that  the  knights  were  arming.  'Who 
cares?  Let  them  arm,'  was  all  that  the  archbishop  said.  His 
clergy  were  less  indifferent.  If  the  archbishop  Was  ready  for 
death,  they  were  not.  The  door  from  the  hall  into  the  court  was 
closed  and  barred,  and  a  short  respite  was  thus  secured.  The 
intention  of  the  knights,  it  may  be  presumed,  was  to  seize  the 
archbishop  and  carry  him  off  to  Saltwood,  or  to  De  Morville's 
castle  at  Knaresborough,  or  perhaps  to  Normandy.  Coming 
back  to  execute  their  purpose,  they  found  themselves  stopped  by 
the  hall  door.  To  burst  it  open  would  require  time;  the  ante- 
room between  the  hall  and  the  archbishop's  apartments  opened 
by   an   oriel   window   and    an   outside   stair    into    a   garden. 


i62  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

Robert  de  Broc,  who  knew  the  house  well,  led  the  way  to  it  in 
the  dusk.  The  steps  were  broken,  but  a  ladder  was  standing 
against  the  window,  by  which  the  knights  mounted,  and  the 
crash  of  the  falling  casement  told  the  fluttered  group  about  the 
archbishop  that  their  enemies  were  upon  them.  There  was  still 
a  moment.  The  party  who  entered  by  the  window,  instead  of 
turning  into  the  archbishop's  room,  first  went  into  the  hall  to 
open  the  door  and  admit  their  comrades.  From  the  archbishop's 
room  a  second  passage,  little  used,  opened  into  the  north-west 
corner  of  the  cloister,  and  from  the  cloister  there  was  a  way 
into  the  north  transept  of  the  cathedral.  The  cry  was,  'To 
the  church.  To  the  church.'  There  at  least  there  would  be 
immediate  safety. 

The  archbishop  had  told  the  knights  that  they  would  find  him 
where  they  left  him.  He  did  not  choose  to  show  fear,  or  he  was 
afraid,  as  some  thought,  of  losing  his  martyrdom.  He  would  not 
move.  The  bell  had  ceased.  They  reminded  him  that  vespers 
had  begun,  and  that  he  ought  to  be  in  the  cathedral.  Half  yield- 
ing, half  resisting,  his  friends  swept  him  down  the  passage  into 
the  cloister.  His  cross  had  been  forgotten  in  the  haste.  Here- 
fused  to  stir  till  it  was  fetched  and  carried  before  him  as  usual. 
Then  only,  himself  incapable  of  fear,  and  rebuking  the  terror  of 
the  rest,  he  advanced  deliberately  up  the  cloister  to  the  church 
door.^  As  he  entered  the  cathedral  cries  were  heard  from  which 
it  became  plain  that  the  knights  had  broken  into  the  archbishop's 
room,  had  found  the  passage,  and  were  following  him.  Almost 
immediately  Fitzurse,  Tracy,  De  Morville,  and  Le  Breton  were 
discerned,  in  the  twilight,  coming  through  the  cloister  in  their 
armour,  with  drawn  swords,  and  axes  in  their  left  hands.    A 

^  Those  who  desire  a  more  particular  account  of  the  scene  about  to  be  described 
should  refer  to  Dean  Stanley's  essay  on  the  murder  of  Becket,  which  is  printed  in  his 
Antiquities  of  Canterbury.  Along  with  an  exact  knowledge  of  the  localities  and  a 
minute  acquaintance  with  the  contemporary  narratives,  Dr.  Stanley  combines  the 
far  more  rare  power  of  historical  imagination,  which  enables  him  to  replace  out  of 
his  materials  an  exact  picture  of  what  took  place. — Author's  Note. 


JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE  163 

company  of  men-at-arms  was  behind  them.  In  front  they  were 
driving  before  them  a  frightened  flock  of  monks. 

From  the  middle  of  the  transept  in  which  the  archbishop  was 
standing  a  single  pillar  rose  into  the  roof.  On  the  eastern  side  of 
it  opened  a  chapel  of  St.  Benedict,  in  which  were  the  tombs  of 
several  of  the  old  primates.  On  the  west,  running  parallel  to  the 
nave,  was  a  lady  chapel.  Behind  the  pillar,  steps  led  up  into  the 
choir,  where  voices  were  already  singing  vespers.  A  faint  light 
may  have  been  reflected  into  the  transept  from  the  choir  tapers, 
and  candles  may  perhaps  have  been  burning  before  the  altars  in 
the  two  chapels — of  light  from  without  through  the  windows  at 
that  hour  there  could  have  been  scarcely  any.  Seeing  the  knights 
coming  on,  the  clergy  who  had  entered  with  the  archbishop  closed 
the  door  and  barred  it.  'What  do  you  fear?'  he  cried  in  a  clear, 
loud  voice.  '  Out  of  the  way,  you  cowards !  The  Church  of  God 
must  not  be  made  a  fortress.'  He  stepped  back  and  reopened  the 
door  with  his  own  hands,  to  let  in  the  trembling  wretches  who 
had  been  shut  out.  They  rushed  past  him,  and  scattered  in  the 
hiding-places  of  the  vast  sanctuary  in  the  crypt,  in  the  galleries, 
or  behind  the  tombs.  All,  or  almost  all,  even  of  his  closest 
friends,  WilUam  of  Canterbury,  Benedict,  John  of  Salisbury  him- 
self, forsook  him  to  shift  for  themselves,  admitting  frankly  that 
they  were  unworthy  of  martyrdom.  The  archbishop  was  left 
alone  with  his  chaplain  Fitzstephen,  Robert  of  Merton  his  old 
master,  and  Edward  Grim,  the  stranger  from  Cambridge — or  per- 
haps with  Grim  only,  who  says  that  he  was  the  only  one  who 
stayed,  and  was  the  only  one  certainly  who  showed  any  sign  of 
courage.  A  cry  had  been  raised  in  the  choir  that  armed  men  were 
breaking  into  the  cathedral.  The  vespers  ceased;  the  few  monks 
assembled  left  their  seats  and  rushed  to  the  edge  of  the  transept, 
looking  wildly  into  the  darkness. 

The  archbishop  was  on  the  fourth  step  beyond  the  central 
pillar  ascending  into  the  choir  when  the  knights  came  in.  The 
outline  of  his  figure  may  have  been  just  visible  to  them,  if  light 


i64  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

fell  upon  it  from  candles  in  the  lady  chapel.  Fitzurse  passed  to 
the  right  of  the  pillar,  De  Morville,  Tracy,  and  Le  Breton  to  the 
left.  Robert  de  Broc  and  Hugh  Mauclerc,  an  apostate  priest, 
remained  at  the  door  by  which  they  entered.  A  voice  cried '  Where 
is  the  traitor?  Where  is  Thomas  Becket?'  There  was  silence; 
such  a  name  could  not  be  acknowledged.  'Where  is  the  arch- 
bishop?' Fitzurse  shouted.  'I  am  here,'  the  archbishop  replied, 
descending  the  steps,  and  meeting  the  knights  full  in  the  face. 
'  What  do  you  want  with  me?  I  am  not  afraid  of  your  swords.  I 
will  not  do  what  is  unjust.' 

The  knights  closed  round  him.  'Absolve  the  persons  whom 
you  have  excommunicated,'  they  said,  'and  take  off  the 
suspensions.' 

'They  have  made  no  satisfaction,'  he  answered;  'I  will  not.' 

'Then  you  shall  die  as  you  have  deserved,'  they  said. 

They  had  not  meant  to  kill  him — certainly  not  at  that  time 
and  in  that  place.  One  of  them  touched  him  on  the  shoulder 
with  the  flat  of  his  sword,  and  hissed  in  his  ears,  '  Fly,  or  you  are 
a  dead  man.'  There  was  still  time;  with  a  few  steps  he  would 
have  been  lost  in  the  gloom  of  the  cathedral,  and  could  have  con- 
cealed himself  in  any  one  of  a  hundred  hiding-placess  But  he 
was  careless  of  life,  and  he  felt  that  his  time  was  come.  'I  am 
ready  to  die,'  he  said.  'May  the  Church  through  my  blood  ob- 
tain peace  and  liberty!  I  charge  you  in  the  name  of  God  that 
you  hurt  no  one  here  but  me.'  The  people  from  the  town  were 
now  pouring  into  the  cathedral;  De  Morville  was  keeping  them 
back  with  difficulty  at  the  head  of  the  steps  from  the  choir,  and 
there  was  danger  of  a  rescue.  Fitzurse  seized  hold  of  the  arch- 
bishop, meaning  to  drag  him  off  as  a  prisoner.  He  had  been  calm 
so  far;  his  pride  rose  at  the  indignity  of  an  arrest.  'Touch  me 
not,  Reginald!'  he  said,  wrenching  his  cloak  out  of  Fitzurse's 
grasp.  'Off,  thou  pander,  thou!'  Le  Breton  and  Fitzurse  grasped 
him  again,  and  tried  to  force  him  upon  Tracy's  back.  He 
grappled  with  Tracy  and  flung  him  to  the  ground,  and  then 


JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE  165 

stood  with  his  back  against  the  pillar,  Edward  Grim  supporting 
him.  He  reproached  Fitzurse  for  ingratitude  for  past  kindness; 
Fitzurse  whispered  to  him  again  to  fly.  'I  will  not  fly,'  he  said, 
and  then  Fitzurse  swept  his  sword  over  him  and  dashed  off  his 
cap.  Tracy,  rising  from  the  pavement,  struck  direct  at  his  head. 
Grim  raised  his  arm  and  caught  the  blow.  The  arm  fell  broken, 
and  the  one  friend  found  faithful  sank  back  disabled  against 
the  wall.  The  sword,  with  its  remaining  force,  wounded  the 
archbishop  above  the  forehead,  and  the  blood  trickled  down  his 
face.  Standing  firmly  with  his  hands  clasped,  he  bent  his  neck 
for  the  death-stroke,  saying  in  a  low  voice,  '  I  am  prepared  to 
die  for  Christ  and  for  His  Church.'  These  were  his  last  words. 
Tracy  again  struck  him.  He  fell  forward  upon  his  knees  ancf 
hands.  In  that  position  Le  Breton  dealt  him  a  blow  which 
severed  the  scalp  from  the  head  and  broke  the  sword  against 
the  stone,  saying,  'Take  that  for  my  Lord  William.'  De  Broc 
or  Mauclerc — the  needless  ferocity  was  attributed  to  both  of 
them — strode  forward  from  the  cloister  door,  set  his  foot  on  the 
neck  of  the  dead  lion,  and  spread  the  brains  upon  the  pavement 
with  his  sword's  point.  'We  may  go,'  he  said;  'the  traitor  is 
dead,  and  will  trouble  us  no  more.' 


PART  III 

INTIMATE  HISTORY 


PLINY  THE  YOUNGER 

About  61-115 

THE  ERUPTION  OF  VESUVIUS  ^ 

[From  the  Letters- of  the  Younger  Pliny,  Book  VI,  Nos.  16  and  20.    The 
translation  is  by  John  B.  Firth. 

In  the  year  of  the  eruption,  a.  d.  79,  PHny  was  with  his  uncle,  Pliny 
the  Elder,  author  of  the  Natural  History,  assisting  him  in  literary  work.] 

I.    TO  TACITUS 

You  ask  me  to  send  you  an  account  of  my  uncle's  death,  so  that 
you  may  be  able  to  give  posterity  an  accurate  description  of  it. 
I  am  much  obliged  to  you,  for  I  can  see  that  the  immortality  of 
his  fame  is  well  assured,  if  you  take  in  hand  to  write  of  it.  For 
although  he  perished  in  a  disaster  which  devastated  some  of  the 
fairest  regions  of  the  land,  and  though  he  is  sure  of  eternal  re- 
membrance like  the  peoples  and  cities  that  fell  with  him  in  that 
memorable  calamity,  though  too  he  had  written  a  large  number 
of  works  of  lasting  value,  yet  the  undying  fame  of  which  your 
writings  are  assured  will  secure  for  his  a  still  further  lease  of  life. 
For  my  own  part,  I  think  that  those  people  are  highly  favoured 
by  Providence  who  are  capable  either  of  performing  deeds  worthy 
of  the  historian's  pen  or  of  writing  histories  worthy  of  being  read, 
but  that  they  are  peculiarly  favoured  who  can  do  both.  Among 
the  latter  I  nuy  class  my  uncle,  thanks  to  his  own  writings  and 
to  yours.  So  I  am  all  the  more  ready  to  fulfil  your  injunctions, 
nay,  I  am  even  prepared  to  beg  to  be  allowed  to  undertake  them. 
My  uncle  was  stationed  at  Misenum,  where  he  was  in  active 
command  of  the  fleet,  with  full  powers.    On  the  23rd  of  August, 

^  Reprinted   by  kind  perniission   of  The  Walter  Scott  Publishing  Company, 
Limited,  Felling-on-Tyne, 

169 


lyo  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

about  the  seventh  hour,  my  mother  drew  his  attention  to  the 
fact  that  a  cloud  of  unusual  size  and  shape  had  made  its 
appearance.  He  had  taken  his  sun  bath,  followed  by  a  cold 
one,  and  after  a  light  meal  he  was  lying  down  and  reading.  Yet 
he  called  for  his  sandals,  and  climbed  up  to  a  spot  from  which 
he  could  command  a  good  view  of  the  curious  phenomenon. 
Those  who  were  looking  at  the  cloud  from  some  distance  could 
not  make  out  from  which  mountain  it  was  rising — it  was  after- 
wards discovered  to  have  been  Mount  Vesuvius— but  in  likeness 
and  form  it  more  closely  resembled  a  pine-tree  than  anything 
else,  for  what  corresponded  to  the  trunk  was  of  great  length 
and  height,  and  then  spread  out  into  a  number  of  branches, 
the  reason  being,  I  imagine,  that  while  the  vapour  was  fresh, 
the  cloud  was  borne  upwards,  but  when  the  vapour  became 
wasted,  it  lost  its  motion,  or  even  became  dissipated  by  its  own 
weight,  and  spread  out  laterally.  At  times  it  looked  white, 
and  at  other  times  dirty  and  spotted,  according  to  the  quantity 
of  earth  and  cinders  that  were  shot  up. 

To  a  man  of  my  uncle's  learning,  the  phenomenon  appeared 
one  of  great  importance,  which  deserved  a  closer  study.  He 
ordered  a  Liburnian  galley  to  be  got  ready,  and  offered  to 
take  me  with  him,  if  I  desired  to  accompany  him,  but  I  replied 
that  I  preferred  to  go  on  with  my  studies,  and  it  so  happened 
that  he  had  assigned  me  some  writing  to  do.  He  was  just 
leaving  the  house  when  he  received  a  written  message  from 
Rectina,  the  wife  of  Tascus,  who  was  terrified  at  the  peril  threat- 
ening her — for  her  villa  lay  just  beneath  the  mountain,  and  there 
were  no  means  of  escape  save  by  shipboard — begging  him  to 
save  her  from  her  perilous  position.  So  he  changed  his  plans, 
and  carried  out  with  the  greatest  fortitude  the  ideas  which  had 
occurred  to  him  as  a  student. 

He  had  the  galleys  launched  and  went  on  board  himself,  in  the 
hope  of  succouring,  not  only  Rectina,  but  many  others,  for  there 
were  a  number  of  people  living  along  the  shore  owing  to  its 


PLINY  THE  YOUNGER  171 

delightful  situation.  He  hastened,  therefore,  towards  the  place 
whence  others  were  flying,  and  steering  a  direct  course,  kept  the 
helm  straight  for  the  point  of  danger,  so  utterly  devoid  of  fear 
that  every  movement  of  the  looming  portent  and  every  change  in 
its  appearance  he  described  and  had  noted  down  by  his  secre- 
tary, as  soon  as  his  eyes  detected  it.  Already  ashes  were  begin- 
ning to  fall  upon  the  ships,  hotter  and  in  thicker  showers  as  they 
approached  more  nearly,  with  pumice-stones  and  black  flints, 
charred  and  cracked  by  the  heat  of  the  flames,  while  their  way 
was  barred  by  the  sudden  shoaling  of  the  sea  bottom  and  the 
litter  of  the  mountain  on  the  shore.  He  hesitated  for  a  moment 
whether  to  turn  back,  and  then,  when  the  helmsman  warned  him 
to  do  so,  he  exclaimed,  ''Fortune  favours  the  bold;  try  to  reach 
Pomponianus."  The  latter  was  at  Stabiae,  separated  by  the 
whole  width  of  the  bay,  for  the  sea  there  pours  in  upon  a  gently 
rounded  and  curving  shore.  Although  the  danger  was  not  yet 
close  upon  him,  it  was  none  the  less  clearly  seen,  and  it  travelled 
quickly  as  it  came  nearer,  so  Pomponianus  had  got  his  baggage 
together  on  shipboard,  and  had  determined  upon  flight,  and  was 
waiting  for  the  wind  which  was  blowing  on  shore  to  fall.  My 
uncle  sailed  in  with  the  wind  fair  behind  him,  and  embraced 
Pornponianus,  who  was  in  a  state  of  fright,  comforting  and  cheer- 
ing him  at  the  same  time.  Then  in  order  to  calm  his  friend's  fears 
by  showing  how  composed  he  was  himself,  he  ordered  the  serv- 
ants to  carry  him  to  the  bath,  and,  after  his  ablutions,  he  sat 
down  and  had  dinner  in  the  best  of  spirits,  or  with  that  assump- 
tion of  good  spirits  which  is  quite  as  remarkable  as  the  reality. 

In  the  meantime  broad  sheets  of  flame,  which  rose  high  in  the 
air,  were  breaking  out  in  a  number  of  places  on  Mount  Vesuvius 
and  lighting  up  the  sky,  and  the  glare  and  brightness  seemed  all 
the  more  striking  owing  to  the  darkness  of  the  night.  My  uncle, 
in  order  to  allay  the  fear  of  his  companions,  kept  declaring  that 
the  country  people  in  their  terror  had  left  their  fires  burning,  and 
that  the  conflagration  they  saw  arose  from  the  blazing  and  empty 


172  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

villas.  Then  he  betook  himself  to  rest  and  enjoyed  a  very  deep 
sleep,  for  his  breathing,  which,  owing  to  his  bulk,  was  rather 
heavy  and  loud,  was  heard  by  those  who  were  waiting  at  the 
door  of  his  chamber.  But  by  this  time  the  courtyard  leading 
to  the  room  he  occupied  was  so  full  of  ashes  and  pumice- 
stones  mingled  together,  and  covered  to  such  a  depth,  that  if 
he  had  delayed  any  longer  in  the  bed  chamber  there  would 
have  been  no  means  of  escape.  So  my  uncle  was  aroused, 
and  came  out  and  joined  Pomponianus  and  the  rest  who 
had  been  keeping  watch.  They  held  a  consultation  whether 
they  should  remain  indoors  or  wander  forth  in  the  open;  for 
the  buildings  were  beginning  to  shake  with  the  repeated  and 
intensely  severe  shocks  of  earthquake,  and  seemed  to  be  rocking 
to  and  fro  as  though  they  had  been  torn  from  their  foundations. 
Outside  again  there  was  danger  to  be  apprehended  from  the 
pumice-stones,  though  these  were  light  and  nearly  burnt  through, 
and  thus,  after  weighing  the  two  perils,  the  latter  course  was 
determined  upon.  With  my  uncle  it  was  a  choice  of  reasons 
which  prevailed,  with  the  rest  a  choice  of  fears. 

They  placed  pillows  on  their  heads  and  secured  them  with 
napkins,  as  a  precaution  against  the  falling  bodies.  Elsewhere 
the  day  had  dawned  by  this  time,  but  there  it  was  still  night,  a,nd 
the  darkness  was  blacker  and  thicker  than  any  ordinary  night. 
This,  however,  they  relieved  as  best  they  could  by  a  number  of 
torches  and  other  kinds  of  lights.  They  decided  to  make  their 
way  to  the  shore,  and  to  see  from  the  nearest  point  whether  the 
sea  would  enable  them  to  put  out,  but  it  was  still  running  high 
and  contrary.  A  sheet  was  spread  on  the  ground,  and  on  this  my 
uncle  lay,  and  twice  he  called  for  a  draught  of  cold  water,  which 
he  drank.  Then  the  flames,  and  the  smell  of  sulphur  which  gave 
warning  of  them,  scattered  the  others  in  flight  and  roused  him. 
Leaning  on  two  slaves,  he  rose  to  his  feet  and  immediately  fell 
down  again,  owing,  as  I  think,  to  his  breathing  being  obstructed 
by  the  thickness  of  the  fumes  and  congestion  of  the  stomach,  that 


PLINY  THE  YOUNGER  173 

organ  being  naturally  weak  and  narrow,  and  subject  to  inflam- 
mation. When  daylight  returned — which  was  three  days  after 
his  death — his  body  was  found  untouched,  uninjured,  and  cov- 
ered, dressed  just  as  he  had  been  in  life.  The  corpse  suggested  a 
person  asleep  rather  than  a  dead  man. 

Meanwhile  my  mother  and  I  were  at  Misenum.  But  that  is  of 
no  consequence  for  the  purposes  of  history,  nor  indeed  did  you 
express  a  wish  to  be  told  of  anything  except  of  my  uncle's  death. 
So  I  will  say  no  more,  except  to  add  that  I  have  given  you  a  full 
account  both  of  the  incidents  which  I  myself  witnessed  and  of 
those  narrated  to  me  immediately  afterwards,  when,  as  a  rule, 
one  gets  the  truest  account  of  what  has  happened.  You  will  pick 
out  what  you  think  will  answer  your  purpose  best,  for  to  write  a 
letter  is  a  different  thing  from  writing  a  history,  and  to  write  to  a 
friend  is  not  like  writing  to  all  and  sundry.    Farewell. 

II.    TO  TACITUS 

You  say  that  the  letter  which  I  wrote  to  you  at  your  request, 
describing  the  death  of  my  uncle,  has  made  you  anxious  to  know 
not  only  the  terrors,  but  also  the  distress  I  suffered  while  I 
remained  behind  at  Misenum.  I  had  indeed  started  to  tell  you 
of  these,  but  then  broke  off.  Well,  though  my  mind  shudders  at 
the  recollection,  I  will  essay  the  task. 

After  my  uncle  had  set  out  I  employed  the -remainder  of  the 
time  with  my  studies,  for  I  had  stayed  behind  for  that  very  pur- 
pose. Afterwards  I  had  a  bath,  dined,  and  then  took  a  brief  and 
restless  sleep.  For  many  days  previous  there  had  been  slight 
shocks  of  earthquake,  which  were  not  particularly  alarming, 
because  they  are  common  enough  in  Campania.  But  on  that 
night  the  shocks  were  so  intense  that  everything  round  us 
seemed  not  only  to  be  disturbed,  but  to  be  tottering  to  its  fall. 
My  mother  rushed  into  my  bedchamber,  just  as  I  myself  was 
getting  up  in  order  to  arouse  her  if  she  was  still  sleeping.  We 
sat  down  in  the  courtyard  of  the  house,  which  was  of  smallish 


174  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

size  and  lay  between  the  sea  and  the  buildings.  I  don't  know 
whether  my  behaviour  should  be  called  courageous  or  rash — for 
I  was  only  in  my  eighteenth  year — but  I  called  for  a  volume 
of  Titus  Livius,  and  read  it,  as  though  I  were  perfectly  at  my 
ease,  and  went  on  making  my  usual  extracts.  Then  a  friend  of  my 
uncle's,  who  had  but  a  httle  time  before  come  to  join  him  from 
Spain,  on  seeing  my  mother  and  myself  sitting  there  and  me 
reading,  upbraided  her  for  her  patience  and  me  for  my  indiffer- 
ence, but  I  paid  no  heed,  and  pored  over  my  book. 

It  was  now  the  first  hour  of  the  day,  but  the  light  was  still 
faint  and  weak.  The  buildings  all  round  us  were  beginning  to 
totter,  and,  though  we  were  in  the  open,  the  courtyard  was  so 
narrow  that  we  were  greatly  afraid,  and  indeed  sure  of  being 
overwhelmed  by  their  fall.  So  that  decided  us  to  leave  the  town. 
We  were  followed  by  a  distracted  crowd,  which,  when  in  a  panic, 
always  prefers  some  one  else's  judgment  to  its  own  as  the  most 
prudent  course  to  adopt,  and  when  we  set  out  these  people  came 
crowding  in  masses  upon  us,  and  pressed  and  urged  us  forward. 
We  came  to  a  halt  when  we  had  passed  beyond  the  buildings,  and 
underwent  there  many  wonderful  experiences  and  terrors.  For 
although  the  ground  was  perfectly  level,  the  vehicles  which  we 
had  ordered  to  be  brought  with  us  began  to  sway  to  and  fro,  and 
though  they  were  wedged  with  stones,  we  could  not  keep  them 
still  in  their  places.  Moreover,  we  saw  the  sea  drawn  back  upon 
itself,  and,  as  it  were,  repelled  by  the  quaking  of  the  earth.  The 
shore  certainly  was  greatly  widened,  and  many  marine  creatures 
were  stranded  on  the  dry  sands.  On  the  other  side,  the  black, 
fearsome  cloud  of  fiery  vapour  burst  into  long,  twisting,  zigzag 
flames  and  gaped  asunder,  the  flames  resembling  lightning 
flashes,  only  they  were  of  greater  size.  Then  indeed  my  uncle's 
Spanish  friend  exclaimed  sharply,  and  with  an  air  of  command, 
to  my  mother  and  me,  "If  your  brother  and  your  uncle  is  still 
alive,  he  will  be  anxious  for  you  to  save  yourselves;  if  he  is  dead, 
I  am  sure  he  wished  you  to  survive  him.    Come,  why  do  you 


PLINY  THE  YOUNGER  175 

hesitate  to  quit  this  place?"  We  replied  that  we  could  not  think 
of  looking  after  our  own  safety  while  we  were  uncertain  of  his. 
He  then  waited  no  longer,  but  tore  away  as  fast  as  he  could  and 
got  clear  of  danger. 

Soon  afterwards  the  cloud  descended  upon  the  earth,  and  cov- 
ered the  whole  bay;  it  encircled  Capreae  and  hid  it  from  sight, 
and  we  could  no  longer  see  the  promontory  of  Misenum.  Then 
my  mother  prayed,  entreated,  and  commanded  me  to  fly  as  best 
I  could,  saying  that  I  was  young  and  could  escape,  while  she  was 
old  and  infirm,  and  would  not  fear  to  die,  if  only  she  knew  that 
she  had  not  been  the  cause  of  my  death.  I  repHed  that  I  would 
not  save  myself  unless  I  could  save  her  too,  and  so,  after  taking 
tight  hold  of  her  hand,  I  forced  her  to  quicken  her  steps.  She 
reluctantly  obeyed,  accusing  herself  for  retarding  my  flight. 
Then  the  ashes  began  to  fall,  but  not  thickly:  I  looked  back,  and 
a  dense  blackness  was  rolling  up  behind  us,  which  spread  itself 
over  the  ground  and  followed  Uke  a  torrent.  "  Let  us  turn  aside," 
I  said,  "while  we  can  still  see,  lest  we  be  thrown  down  in  the  road 
and  trampled  on  in  the  darkness  by  the  thronging  crowd."  We 
were  considering  what  to  do,  when  the  blackness  of  night  over- 
took us,  not  that  of  a  moonless  or  cloudy  night,  but  the  blackness 
of  pent-up  places  which  never  see  the  light.  You  could  hear  the 
wailing  of  women,  the  screams  of  little  children,  and  the  shouts 
of  men;  some  were  trying  to  find  their  parents,  others  their  chil- 
dren, others  their  wives,  by  calling  for  them  and  recognising  them 
by  their  voices  alone.  Some  were  commiserating  their  own  lot, 
others  that  of  their  relatives,  while  some  again  prayed  for  death 
in  sheer  terror  of  dying.  Many  were  lifting  up  their  hands  to  the 
gods,  but  more  were  declaring  that  now  there  were  no  more  gods, 
and  that  this  night  would  last  for  ever,  and  be  the  end  of  all  the 
world.  Nor  were  there  wanting  those  who  added  to  the  real 
perils  by  inventing  new  and  false  terrors,  for  some  said  that  part 
of  Misenum  was  in  ruins  and  the  rest  in  flames,  and  though  the 
tale  was  untrue,  it  found  ready  believers. 


176  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

A  gleam  of  light  now  appeared,  which  seemed  to  us  not  so  much 
daylight  as  a  token  of  the  approaching  fire.  The  latter  remained 
at  a  distance,  but  the  darkness  came  on  again,  and  the  ashes  once 
more  fell  thickly  and  heavily.  We  had  to  keep  rising  and  shaking 
the  latter  off  us,  or  we  should  have  been  buried  by  them  and 
crushed  by  their  weight.  I  might  boast  that  not  one  groan  or 
cowardly  exclamation  escaped  my  Ups,  despite  these  perils,  had 
I  not  believed  that  I  and  the  world  were  perishing  together — a 
miserable  consolation,  indeed,  yet  one  which  a  mortal  creature 
finds  very  soothing.  At  length  the  blackness  became  less  dense, 
and  dissipated  as  it  were  into  smoke  and  cloud;  then  came  the 
real  light  of  day,  and  the  sun  shone  out,  but  as  blood-red  as  it  is 
wont  to  be  at  its  setting.  Our  still  trembling  eyes  saw  that 
everything  had  been  transformed,  and  covered  with  a  deep  layer 
of  ashes,  like  snow.  Making  our  way  back  to  Misenum,  we 
refreshed  our  bodies  as  best  we  could,  and  passed  an  anxious, 
troubled  night,  hovering  between  hope  and  fear.  But  our  fears 
were  uppermost,  for  the  shocks  of  earthquake  still  continued,  and 
several  persons,  driven  frantic  by  dreadful  prophecies,  made  sport 
of  their  own  calamities  and  those  of  others.  For  our  own  part, 
though  we  had  already  passed  through  perils,  and  expected  still 
more  to  come,  we  had  no  idea  even  then  of  leaving  the  town  until 
we  got  news  of  my  uncle. 

You  will  not  read  these  details,  which  are  not  up  to  the  dignity 
of  history,  as  though  you  were  about  to  incorporate  them  in  your 
writings,  and  if  they  seem  to  you  to  be  hardly  worth  being  made 
the  subject  of  a  letter,  you  must  take  the  blame  yourself,  inas- 
much as  you  insisted  on  having  them.    Farewell. 


JEAN  FROISSART  177 

JEAN  FROISSART 

About  1 337-1410 

THE  COUNT  DE  FOEX  AND  THE  CRUEL  DEATH  OF  HIS 
ONLY  SON 

[From  Chronicles  of  England,  France,  Spain,  and  the  Adjoining  Coun- 
tries,  translated  by  Thomas  Johnes  of  Hafod  (i 803-1 805).] 

In  such  manner  did  the  count  de  Foix  live.  When  he  quitted  his 
chamber  at  midnight  for  supper,  twelve  servants  bore  each  a 
large  lighted  torch  before  him,  which  were  placed  near  his  table 
and  gave  a  brilliant  light  to  the  apartment.  The  hall  was  fuU  of 
knights  and  squires;  and  there  were  plenty  of  tables  laid  out  for 
any  person  who  chose  to  sup.  No  one  spoke  to  him  at  his  table, 
imless  he  first  began  a  conversation.  He  commonly  ate  heartily 
of  poultry,  but  only  the  wings  and  thighs;  for  in  the  daytime  he 
neither  ate  nor  drank  much.  He  had  great  pleasure  in  hearing 
minstrels,  as  he  himself  was  a  proficient  in  the  science,  and  made 
his  secretaries  sing  songs,  ballads,  and  roundelays.  He  remained 
at  table  about  two  hours;  and  was  pleased  when  fanciful  dishes 
were  served  up  to  him,  which  having  seen,  he  immediately  sent 
them  to  the  tables  of  his  knights  and  squires. 

In  short,  everything  considered,  though  I  had  before  been  in 
several  courts  of  kings,  dukes,  princes,  counts,  and  noble  ladies, 
I  was  never  at  one  which  pleased  me  more,  nor  was  I  ever  more 
dehghted  with  feats  of  arms,  than  at  this  of  the  count  de  Foix. 
There  were  knights  and  squires  to  be  seen  in  every  chamber,  hall, 
and  court,  going  backwards  and  forwards,  and  conversing  on 
arms  and  amours.  Everything  honourable  was  there  to  be  found. 
All  intelligence  from  distant  countries  was  there  to  be  learnt;  for 
the  gallantry  of  the  count  had  brought  visitors  from  all  parts  of 
the  world.  It  was  there  I  was  informed  of  the  greater  part  of 
those  events  which  had  happened  in  Spain,  Portugal,  Arragon, 
Navarre,  England,  Scotland,  and  on  the  borders  of  Languedoc; 


178  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

for  I  saw,  during  my  residence,  knights  and  squires  arrive  from 
every  nation.  I  therefore  made  inquiries  from  them,  or  from 
the  count  himself,  who  cheerfully  conversed  with  me. 

I  was  very  anxious  to  know,  seeing  the  hotel  of  the  count  so 
spacious  and  so  amply  supplied,  what  was  become  of  his  son 
Gaston,  and  by  what  accident  he  had  died,  for  sir  Espaign  du 
Lyon  would  never  satisfy  my  curiosity.  I  made  so  many  in- 
quiries, that  at  last  an  old  and  intelligent  squire  informed  me. 
He  thus  began  his  tale: — 

"It  is  well  known  that  the  count  and  countess  de  Foix  are  not 
on  good  terms  with  each  other,  nor  have  they  been  so  for  a  long 
time.  This  dissension  arose  from  the  king  of  Navarre,  who  is  the 
lady's  brother.  The  king  of  Navarre  had  offered  to  pledge  him- 
self for  the  lord  d'Albreth,  whom  the  count  de  Foix  held  in  prison, 
in  the  sum  of  fifty  thousand  francs.  The  count  de  Foix,  knowing 
the  king  of  Navarre  to  be  crafty  and  faithless,  would  not  accept 
his  security,  which  piqued  the  countess,  and  raised  her  indigna- 
tion against  her  husband:  she  said,  'My  lord,  you  show  but  little 
confidence  in  the  honour  of  my  brother,  the  king  of  Navarre, 
when  you  will  not  trust  him  for  fifty  thousand  francs:  if  you 
never  gain  more  from  the  Armagnacs  and  Labrissiens  than  you 
have  done,  you  ought  to  be  contented :  you  know  that  you  are  to 
assign  over  my  dower,  which  amoimts  to  fifty  thousand  francs, 
into  the  hands  of  my  brother:  therefore  you  cannot  run  any  risk 
for  the  repayment.'  'Lady,  you  say  truly,'  replied  the  count; 
*  but,  if  I  thought  the  king  of  Navarre  would  stop  the  payment  for 
that  cause,  the  lord  d'Albreth  should  never  leave  Orthes  until  he 
had  paid  me  the  utmost  farthing.  Since,  however,  you  entreat 
it,  it  shaU  be  done,  not  out  of  love  to  you,  but  out  of  affection  to 
my  son.'  Upon  this,  and  from  the  assurance  of  the  king  of  Na- 
varre, who  acknowledged  himself  debtor  to  the  count  de  Foix, 
the  lord  d'Albreth  recovered  his  liberty;  he  turned  to  the  French 
interest,  and  married  the  sister  of  the  duke  of  Bourbon.  He 
paid,  at  his  convenience,  to  the  king  of  Navarre  the  sum  of  fifty 


JEAN  FROISSART  179 

thousand  francs,  according  to  his  obUgation;  but  that  king  never 
repaid  them  to  the  count  de  Foix. 

"The  count  on  this  said  to  his  wife,  *  Lady,  you  must  go  to  your 
brother  in  Navarre,  and  tell  him  that  I  am  very  ill  satisfied  with 
him  for  withholding  from  me  the  sum  he  has  received  on  my  ac- 
count.' The  lady  repHed,  she  would  cheerfully  go  thither,  and 
set  out  from  Orthes  with  her  attendants.  On  her  arrival  at 
Pampeluna,  her  brother,  the  king  of  Navarre,  received  her  with 
much  joy.  The  lady  punctually  delivered  her  message,  which 
when  the  king  had  heard,  he  replied,  '  My  fair  sister,  the  money 
is  yours,  as  your  dower  from  the  count  de  Foix;  and,  since  I  have 
possession  of  it,  it  shall  never  go  out  of  the  kingdom  of  Navarre.' 
'Ah,  my  lord,'  replied  the  lady,  'you  will  by  this  create  a  great 
hatred  between  the  count  de  Foix  and  me;  and,  if  you  persist  in 
this  resolution,  I  shall  never  dare  return,  for  my  lord  will  put  me 
to  death  for  having  deceived  him.'  'I  cannot  say,'  answered  the 
king,  who  was  unwilling  to  let  such  a  sum  go  out  of  his  hands, 
'how  you  should  act,  whether  to  remain  or  return;  but  as  I  have 
possession  of  the  money,  and  it  is  my  right  to  keep  it  for  you,  it 
shall  never  leave  Navarre.' 

''The  countess  de  Foix,  not  being  able  to  obtain  any  other 
answer,  remained  in  Navarre,  not  daring  to  return  home.  The 
count  de  Foix,  perceiving  the  maUce  of  the  king  of  Navarre,  be- 
gan to  detest  his  wife,  though  she  was  no  way  to  blame,  for  not 
returning  after  she  had  delivered  his  message.  In  truth,  she  was 
afraid;  for  she  knew  her  husband  to  be  cruel  when  displeased 
with  any  one.  Thus  things  remained.  Gaston,  the  son  of  my 
lord,  grew  up  and  became  a  fine  young  gentleman.  He  was 
married  to  the  daughter  of  the  count  d'Armagnac,  sister  to  the 
present  count  and  to  sir  Bernard  d'Armagnac;  and  by  this  union 
peace  was  ensured  between  Foix  and  Armagnac.  The  youth 
might  be  about  fifteen  or  sixteen  years  old:  he  was  a  very 
handsome  figure,  and  the  exact  resemblance  to  his  father  in  his 
whole  form. 


i8o  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

"He  took  it  into  his  head  to  make  a  journey  into  Navarre,  to 
visit  his  mother  and  uncle;  but  it  was  an  unfortunate  journey  for 
him  and  for  this  country.  On  his  arrival  in  Navarre,  he  was 
splendidly  entertained:  and  he  stayed  some  time  with  his  mother. 
On  taking  leave,  he  could  not  prevail  on  her,  notwithstanding  his 
remonstrances  and  entreaties,  to  accompany  him  back;  for,  the 
lady  having  asked  if  the  count  de  Foix  his  father  had  ordered  him 
to  bring  her  back,  he  replied,  that  when  he  set  out,  no  such  orders 
had  been  given,  which  caused  her  to  fear  trusting  herself  with 
him.  She  therefore  remained,  and  the  heir  of  Foix  went  to 
Pampeluna  to  take  leave  of  his  uncle.  The  king  entertained  him 
well,  and  detained  him  upwards  of  ten  days :  on  his  departure  he 
made  him  handsome  presents,  and  did  the  same  by  his  attend- 
ants. The  last  gift  the  king  gave  him  was  the  cause  of  his  death, 
and  I  will  tell  you  how  it  happened.  As  the  youth  was  on  the 
point  of  setting  out,  the  king  took  him  privately  into  his  chamber, 
and  gave  him  a  bag  full  of  powder,  which  was  of  such  pernicious 
quality  as  would  cause  the  death  of  any  one  that  ate  of  it.  '  Gas- 
ton, my  fair  nephew,'  said  the  king,  'will  you  do  what  I  am  about 
to  tell  you?  You  see  how  unjustly  the  count  de  Foix  hates  your 
mother,  who  being  my  sister,  it  displeases  me  as  much  as  it 
should  you.  If  you  wish  to  reconcile  your  father  to  your  mother, 
you  must  take  a  small  pinch  of  this  powder,  and  when  you  see  a 
proper  opportunity,  strew  it  over  the  meat  destined  for  your 
father's  table;  but  take  care  no  one  sees  you.  The  instant  he 
shall  have  tasted  it,  he  will  be  impatient  for  his  wife,  your 
mother,  to  return  to  him;  and  they  will  love  each  other  hence- 
forward so  strongly  they  wiU  never  again  be  separated.  You 
ought  to  be  anxious  to  see  this  accomplished.  Do  not  tell  it  to 
any  one:  for,  if  you  do,  it  will  lose  its  effect.'  The  youth,  who 
beUeved  everything  his  uncle  the  king  of  Navarre  had  told  him, 
replied,  he  would  cheerfully  do  as  he  had  said;  and  on  this  he 
departed  from  Pampeluna,  on  his  return  to  Orthes.  His  father, 
the  count  de  Foix,  received  him  with  pleasure,  and  asked  what 


JEAN  FROISSART  i8i 

was  the  news  in  Navarre,  and  what  presents  and  jewels  had 
been  given  him;  he  repUed,  'Very  handsome  ones,'  and  showed 
them  all,  except  the  bag  which  contained  the  powder. 

"It  was  customary,  in  the  hotel  de  Foix,  for  Gaston  and  his 
bastard  brother  Evan  to  sleep  in  the  same  chamber:  they  mu- 
tually loved  each  other  and  were  dressed  aUke,  for  they  were 
nearly  of  the  same  size  and  age.  It  fell  out,  that  their  clothes 
were  once  mixed  together;  and,  the  coat  of  Gaston  being  on  the 
bed,  Evan,  who  was  malicious  enough,  noticing  the  powder  in  the 
bag,  said  to  Gaston,  '  What  is  this  that  you  wear  every  day  on 
your  breast?'  Gaston  was  not  pleased  at  the  question,  and  re- 
plied, 'Give  me  back  my  coat,  Evan;  you  have  nothing  to  do 
with  it.'  Evan  flung  him  his  coat,  which  Gaston  put  on,  but  was 
very  pensive  the  whole  day.  Three  days  after,  as  if  God  was 
desirous  of  saving  the  life  of  the  count  de  Foix,  Gaston  quarrelled 
with  Evan  at  tennis,  and  gave  him  a  box  on  the  ear.  The  boy 
was  vexed  at  this,  and  ran  crying  to  the  apartment  of  the  count, 
who  had  just  heard  mass.  The  count,  on  seeing  him  in  tears, 
asked  what  was  the  matter.  'In  God's  name,  my  lord,'  repUed 
Evan,  'Gaston  has  beaten  me,  but  he  deserves  beating  much 
more  than  I  do.'  'For  what  reason?'  said  the  count,  who  began 
to  have  some  suspicions.  'Oii  my  faith,'  said  Evan,  'ever  since 
his  return  from  Navarre,  he  wears  on  his  breast  a  bag  of  powder: 
I  know  not  of  what  use  it  can  be  of,  nor  what  he  intends  to  do 
with  it;  except  that  he  has  once  or  twice  told  me,  his  mother 
would  soon  return  hither,  and  be  more  in  your  good  graces  than 
ever  she  was.'  'Ho,'  said  the  count,  'hold  thy  tongue,  and  be 
sure  thou  do  not  mention  what  thou  hast  just  told  me  to  any 
man  breathing.'    ' My  lord,'  replied  the  youth,  'I  will  obey  you.' 

*'  The  coimt  de  Foix  was  very  thoughtful  on  this  subject,  and 
remained  alone  until  dinner-time,  when  he  rose  up,  and  seated 
himself  as  usual  at  his  table  in  the  hall.  His  son  Gaston  always 
placed  the  dishes  before  him,  and  tasted  the  meats.  As  soon  as 
he  had  served  the  first  dish,  and  done  what  was  usual,  the  count 


i82  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

cast  his  eyes  on  him,  having  formed  his  plan,  and  saw  the  strings 
of  the  bag  hanging  from  his  pour-point.  This  sight  made  his 
blood  boil,  and  he  said,  '  Gaston,  come  hither:  I  want  to  whisper 
you  something.'  The  youth  advanced  to  the  table,  when  the 
count,  opening  his  bosom,  undid  his  pour-point,  and  with  his 
knife  cut  away  the  bag.  The  young  man  was  thunderstruck, 
and  said  not  a  word,  but  turned  pale  with  fear,  and  began  to 
tremble  exceedingly,  for  he  was  conscious  he  had  done  wrong. 
The  count  opened  the  bag,  took  some  of  the  powder,  which  he 
strewed  over  a  slice  of  bread,  and,  calling  a  dog  to  him,  gave  it 
him  to  eat.  The  instant  the  dog  had  eaten  a  morsel  his  eyes 
rolled  round  in  his  head,  and  he  died. 

"The  count  on  this  was  very  wroth,  and  indeed  had  reason: 
rising  from  table,  he  would  have  struck  his  son  with  a  knife;  but 
the  knights  and  squires  rushed  in  between  them,  saying,  'For 
God's  sake,  my  lord,  do  not  be  too  hasty,  but  make  further  in- 
quiries before  you  do  any  ill  to  your  son.'  The  first  words  the 
count  uttered  were  in  Gascon;  'Ho,  Gaston,  thou  traitor!  for 
thee,  and  to  increase  thy  inheritance  which  would  have  come  to 
thee,  have  I  made  war,  and  incurred  the  hatred  of  the  kings  of 
France,  England,  Spain,  Navarre,  and  Arragon,  and  have  borne 
myself  gallantly  against  them,  and  thou  wishest  to  murder  me ! 
Thy  disposition  must  be  infamously  bad:  know  therefore  thou 
shalt  die  with  this  blow.'  And  leaping  over  the  table  with  a 
knife  in  his  hand,  he  would  have  slain  him:  but  the  knights  and 
squires  again  interfered,  and  on  their  knees  said  to  him  with  tears, 
'  Ah,  ah !  my  lord,  for  Heaven's  sake,  do  not  kill  Gaston :  you  have 
no  other  child.  Let  him  be  confined  and  inquire  further  into  the 
business.  Perhaps  he  was  ignorant  what  was  in  the  bag,  and  may 
therefore  be  blameless. '  '  Well, '  replied  the  count, '  let  him  be  con- 
fined in  the  dungeon,  but  so  safely  guarded  that  he  may  be  forth- 
coming.' The  youth  was  therefore  confined  in  this  tower.  The 
count  had  many  of  those  who  served  his  son  arrested,  but  not  all; 
for  several  escaped  out  of  the  country:  in  particular,  the  bishop 


JEAN  FROISSART  183 

of  Lescar,  who  was  much  suspected,  as  were  several  others.  He  put 
to  death  not  less  than  fifteen,  after  they  had  suffered  the  torture: 
and  the  reason  he  gave  was,  that  it  was  impossible  but  they  must 
have  been  acquainted  with  the  secrets  of  his  son,  and  they  ought 
to  have  informed  him  by  saying,  'My  lord,  Gaston  wears  con- 
stantly on  his  breast  a  bag  of  such  and  such  a  form/  This 
they  did  not  do,  and  suffered  a  terrible  death  for  it;  which  was 
a  pity,  for  there  were  not  in  all  Gascony  such  handsome  or  well- 
appointed  squires.  The  household  of  the  count  de  Foix  was 
always  splendidly  estabUshed. 

"This  business  went  to  the  heart  of  the  count,  as  he  plainly 
showed;  for  he  assembled  at  Orthes  all  the  nobles  and  prelates 
of  Foix  and  Beam,  and  others  the  principal  persons  of  the  coun- 
try. When  they  were  met,  he  informed  them  of  the  cause  of  his 
calling  them  together,  and  told  them  how  culpable  he  had  found 
Gaston;  insomuch  that  it  was  his  intention  he  should  be  put  to 
death,  as  he  thought  him  deserving  of  it.  They  unanimously  re- 
pUed  to  this  speech,  'My  lord,  saving  your  grace's  favour,  we 
will  not  that  Gaston  be  put  to  death:  he  is  your  heir  and  you 
hive  none  other.'  When  the  count  thus  heard  his  subjects  de- 
clare their  sentiments  in  favour  of  his  son,  he  hesitated,  and 
thought  he  might  sufficiently  chastise  him  by  two  or  three 
months'  confinement,  when  he  would  send  him  on  his  travels  for 
a  few  years  until  his  ill-conduct  should  be  forgotten,  and  he  feel 
grateful  for  the  lenity  of  his  punishment.  He  therefore  dissolved 
the  meeting;  but  those  of  Foix  would  not  quit  Orthes  until  the 
count  had  assured  them  Gaston  should  not  be  put  to  death,  so 
great  was  their  affection  to  him.  He  compHed  with  their  re- 
quest, but  said  he  would  keep  him  some  time  in  prison.  On  this 
promise,  those  who  had  been  assembled  departed,  and  Gaston 
remained  a  prisoner  in  Orthes.  News  of  this  was  spread  far  and 
near,  and  reached  pope  Gregory  XL,  who  resided  at  Avignon:  he 
sent  instantly  the  cardinal  of  Amiens,  as  his  legate,  to  Beam,  to 
accommodate  this  affair;  but  he  had  scarcely  travelled  as  far  as 


i84  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

Beziers,  when  he  heard  he  had  no  need  to  continue  his  journey, 
for  that  Gaston  the  son  of  the  count  de  Foix  was  dead. 

"  I  will  tell  you  the  cause  of  his  death,  since  I  have  said  so  much 
on  the  subject.  The  count  de  Foix  had  caused  him  to  be  con- 
fined in  a  room  of  the  dungeon  where  was  little  light:  there  he 
remained  for  ten  days.  He  scarcely  ate  or  drank  anything  of  the 
food  which  was  regularly  brought  to  him,  but  threw  it  aside.  It  is 
said,  that  after  his  death,  all  the  meat  was  found  untouched,  so 
that  it  is  marvellous  how  he  could  have  Hved  so  long.  The  count 
would  not  permit  any  one  to  remain  in  the  chamber  to  advise  or 
comfort  him:  he  therefore  never  put  off  the  clothes  he  had  on 
when  he  entered  his  prison.  This  made  him  melancholy  and 
vexed  him,  for  he  did  not  expect  so  much  harshness:  he  therefore 
cursed  the  hour  he  was  bom,  and  lamented  that  he  should  come 
to  such  an  end.  On  the  day  of  his  death,  those  who  brought  him 
food  said, '  Gaston,  here  is  meat  for  you.'  He  paid  not  any  atten- 
tion to  it,  but  said,  'Put  it  down.'  The  person  who  served  him, 
looking  about,  saw  all  the  meat  untouched  that  he  had  brought 
thither  the  last  days:  then,  shutting  the  door,  he  went  to  the 
count  and  said,  'My  lord,  for  God's  sake,  look  to  your  son:  he 
is  starving  himself  in  his  prison.  I  do  not  beheve  he  has  eaten 
anything  since  his  confinement:  for  I  see  all  that  I  have  carried 
to  him  lying  on  one  side  untouched.' 

"On  hearing  this,  the  count  was  enraged,  and,  without  sa)ang 
a  word,  left  his  apartment  and  went  to  the  prison  of  his  son.  In 
an  evil  hour,  he  had  in  his  hand  a  knife,  with  which  he  had  been 
paring  and  cleaning  his  nails,  he  held  it  by  the  blade  so  closely 
that  scarcely  the  thickness  of  a  groat  appeared  of  the  point,  when, 
pushing  aside  the  tapestry  that  covered  the  entrance  of  the 
prison,  through  ill  luck,  he  hit  his  son  on  a  vein  of  his  throat,  as 
he  uttered,  'Ha,  traitor,  why  dost  not  thou  eat?'  and  instantly 
left  the  room,  without  saying  or  doing  anything  more.  The  youth 
was  much  frightened  at  his  father's  arrival,  and  withal  exceed- 
ingly weak  from  fasting.    The  point  of  the  knife,  small  as  it  was, 


JEAN  FROISSART  185 

cut  a  vein,  which  as  soon  as  he  felt  he  turned  himself  on  one  side 
and  died. 

"The  count  had  barely  got  back  again  to  his  apartment  when 
the  attendants  of  his  son  came  and  said,  'My  lord,  Gaston  is 
dead.'  'Dead!'  cried  the  count.  'Yes,  God  help  me!  indeed  he 
is,  my  lord.'  The  count  would  not  believe  it,  and  sent  one  of 
his  knights  to  see.  The  knight,  on  his  return,  confirmed  the 
news.  The  count  was  now  bitterly  affected,  and  cried  out,  'Ha, 
ha,  Gaston!  what  a  sorry  business  has  this  turned  out  for  thee 
and  me!  In  an  evil  hour  didst  thou  go  to  visit  thy  mother  in 
Navarre.  Never  shall  I  again  enjoy  the  happiness  I  had  form- 
erly.' He  then  ordered  his  barber  to  be  sent  for,  and  was  shaven 
quite  bare:  he  clothed  himself,  as  well  as  his  whole  household,  in 
black.  The  body  of  the  youth  was  borne,  with  tears  and  lamen- 
tations, to  the  church  of  the  Augustin  friars  at  Orthes,  where  it 
was  buried.  Thus  have  I  related  to  you  the  death  of  Gaston  de 
Foix:  his  father  killed  him  indeed,  but  the  king  of  Navarre  was 
the  cause  of  this  sad  event." 


JEAN  FROISSART 

About  1 337-1410 

EDWARD  THE  THIRD  AND  THE  COUNTESS  OF 
SALISBURY  1 

[From  the  translation  by  Lord  Berners,  published  in  1523-25. 

During  the  wars  of  Edward  the  Third  the  Scots  laid  siege  to  the 
Earl  of  Salisbury's  Castle  of  Wark  on  the  Tweed,  the  earl  being  ab- 
sent, a  prisoner  in  France  in  his  king's  cause.  Edward  came  to  the 
countess's  rescue  and  raised  the  siege. 

"The  same  day  that  the  Scots  had  decamped  from  before  the  castle 
of  Wark,  King  Edward  and  his  whole  army  arrived  there  about  mid- 
day, and  took  up  their  position  on  the  ground  which  the  Scots  had 

^  Reprinted  from  the  edition  of  F.  T.  Marzials,  by  kind  permission  of  The  Walter 
Scott  Publishing  Company,  Limited,  Felling-on-Tyne. 


i86  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

occupied.  ...  He  ordered  his  men  to  take  up  their  quarters 
where  they  were  as  he  wished  to  go  to  the  castle  to  see  the  noble  dame 
within,  whom  he  had  never  seen  since  her  marriage.  .  .  .  The 
king  .  .  .  taking  ten  or  twelve  knights  with  him,  went  to  the 
castle  to  salute  the  countess  of  Salisbury,  and  to  examine  what  damage 
the  attacks  of  the  Scots  had  done,  and  the  manner  in  which  those 
within  had  defended  themselves."! 


As  sone  as  the  lady  knewe  of  the  kynge's  comyng,  she  set  opyn 
the  gates  and  came  out  so  richly  besene,  that  euery  man  marueyled 
of  her  beauty,  and  coude  nat  cease  to  regard  her  nobleness, 
with  her  great  beauty  and  the  gracyous  wordes  and  counte- 
naunce  that  she  made.  When  she  came  to  the  kyng  she  knelyd 
downe  to  the  yerth,  thankyng  hym  of  his  socours,  and  so  ledde 
hym  into  the  castell  to  make  hym  chere  and  honour  as  she  that 
coude  ryght  well  do  it.  Euery  man  regarded  her  maruelussly; 
the  kyng  hymselfe  coude  nat  witholde  his  regardyng  of  her,  for 
he  thought  that  he  neuer  sawe  before  so  noble  nor  so  fayre  a  lady; 
he  was  stryken  therwith  to  the  hert  with  a  spercle  of  fyne  loue 
that  endured  long  after;  he  thought  no  lady  in  the  worlde  so 
worthy  to  be  beloude  as  she.  Thus  they  entred  into  the  castell 
hande  in  hande;  the  lady  ledde  hym  first  into  the  hall,  and  after 
into  the  chambre  nobly  aparelled. 

The  king  regarded  so  the  lady  that  she  was  abasshed;  at  last 
he  went  to  a  wyndo  to  rest  hym,  and  so  fell  into  a  great  study. 
The  lady  went  about  to  make  chere  to  the  lordes  and  knyghtes 
that  were  ther,  and  comaunded  to  dresse  the  hall  for  dyner. 
Whan  she  had  al  deuysed  and  comaunded  tham  she  came  to  the 
kynge  with  a  mery  chere  (who  was  in  a  great  study),  and  she 
sayd,  Dere  sir,  why  do  you  study  so,  for,  your  grace  nat  dys- 
pleased,  it  aparteyneth  nat  to  you  so  to  do;  rather  ye  shulde 
make  good  chere  and  be  joyfuU  seyng  ye  haue  chased  away  your 
enmies  who  durst  nat  abyde  you;  let  other  men  study  for  the 
remynant.  Than  the  kyng  sayd,  A  dere  lady,  knowe  for  trouthe 
that  syth  I  entred  into  the  castell  ther  is  a  study  come  to  my 


JEAN  FROISSART  187 

mynde  so  that  I  can  nat  chuse  but  to  miise,  nor  I  can  nat  tell 
what  shall  fall  therof ;  put  it  out  of  my  herte  I  can  nat.  A  sir, 
quoth  the  lady,  ye  ought  alwayes  to  make  good  chere  to  comfort 
therwith  your  peple.  '  God  hath  ayded  you  so  in  your  besynes 
and  hath  gyuen  you  so  great  graces,  that  ye  be  the  moste  douted 
and  honoured  prince  in  all  christendome,  and  if  the  k5mge  of 
Scottes  haue  done  you  any  dyspyte  or  damage  ye  may  well 
amende  it  whan  it  shall  please  you,  as  ye  haue  done  dyuerse 
tymes  or  this.  Sir,  leaue  your  musing  and  come  into  the  hall  if 
it  please  you;  your  dyner  is  all  redy.  A  fayre  lady,  quoth  the 
kyng,  other  thynges  lyeth  at  my  hert  that  ye  knowe  nat  of,  but 
surely  your  swete  behauyng,  the  perfect  wysedom,  the  good 
grace,  noblenes  and  excellent  beauty  that  I  see  in  you,  hath  so 
sore  surprised  my  hert  that  I  can  nat  but  loue  you,  and  without 
your  loue  I  am  but  deed. 

Than  the  lady  sayde,  A  ryght  noble  prince  for  Goddes  sake 
mocke  nor  tempt  me  nat;  I  can  nat  beleue  that  it  is  true  that 
ye  say,  nor  that  so  noble  a  prince  as  ye  be  wolde  thynke  to 
dyshonour  me  and  my  lorde  my  husbande,  who  is  so  valyant 
a  knyght  and  hath  done  your  grace  so  gode  seruyce  and  as 
yet  lye  the  in  prison  for  your  quarell.  Certely  sir  ye  shulde 
in  this  case  haue  but  a  small  prayse  and  nothing  the  better 
therby.  I  had  neuer  as  yet  such  a  thoght  in  my  hert,  nor  I  trust 
in  God,  neuer  shall  haue  for  no  man  lyueng;  if  I  had  any  suche 
intencyon  your  grace  ought  nat  all  onely  to  blame  me,  but  also 
to  punysshe  my  body,  ye  and  by  true  iustice  to  be  dismembred. 

Therwith  the  lady  departed  fro  the  kyng  and  went  into  the 
hall  to  hast  the  dyner;  than  she  returned  agayne  to  the  kyng  and 
broght  some  of  his  knyghtes  with  her,  and  sayd.  Sir,  yf  it  please 
you  to  come  into  the  hall  your  knyghtes  abideth  for  you  to 
wasshe;  ye  haue  ben  to  long  fast3mg.  Than  the  kyng  went  into 
the  hall  and  wassht  and  sat  down  among  his  lordes  and  the  lady 
also.  The  kyng  ete  but  lytell,  he  sat  styll  musing,  and  as  he  durst 
he  cast  his  eyen  upon  the  lady.    Of  his  sadnesse  his  knyghtes 


i88  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

had  maruell  for  he  was  nat  acustomed  so  to  be;  some  thought  it 
was  because  the  Scotts  were  scaped  fro  hym.  All  that  day  the 
kyng  taryed  ther  and  wyst  nat  what  to  do.  Sometime  he  ymag- 
ined  that  honour  and  trouth  defended  hynt  to  set  his  hert  in  such 
a  case  to  dyshonour  such  a  lady  and  so  true  a  knight  as  her  hus- 
band was  who  had  alwayes  well  and  truely  serued  hym.  On 
thother  part  loue  so  constrayned  hym  that  the  power  thereof  sur- 
mounted honour  and  trouth.  Thus  the  kyng  debated  in  hymseK 
all  that  day  and  all  that  night. 

In  the  mornyng  he  arose  and  dyssloged  all  his  boost  and  drewe 
after  the  Scottes  to  chase  them  out  of  his  realme.  Than  he  toke 
leaue  of  the  lady  sayeng,  My  dere  lady  to  God  I  comende  you 
tyll  I  returne  agayne,  requiryng  you  to  aduyse  you  otherwyse 
than  ye  haue  sayd  to  me.  Noble  prince,  quoth  the  lady,  God  the 
father  glorious  be  your  conduct,  and  put  you  out  of  all  vylayne 
thoughts.  Sir,  I  am  and  euer  shal  be  redy  to  do  your  grace 
seruyce  to  your  honour  and  to  myne.  Therwith  the  kyng  de- 
parted all  abasshed. 

["The  passages  quoted  above,  relating  to  the  Countess  of  Salisbury, 
were  translated  from  what  M.  Simeon  Luce  calls  the  'ordinary'  ver- 
sion. In  a  later  version,  represented  by  the  MS.  of  Amiens,  Froissart 
adds  further  details  to  the  story.  The  passage  is  written  in  his  best 
style — with  his  best  ink,  as  the  French  would  say.  I  'English '  it,  in- 
adequately, as  follows." — F.  T.  Marzials.j 

After  dinner  the  tables  were  cleared.  Then  the  king  sent  my 
Lord  Reginald  Cobham  and  my  Lord  Richard  Stamford  to  the 
army,  and  to  the  companions  who  were  lodged  without  the 
castle,  to  know  how  they  did,  and  in  what  condition  they  were, 
for  he  was  minded  to  ride  forward  and  pursue  the  Scots,  and 
wished  all  the  chariots  and  materials  of  war  to  be  sent  on,  saying 
that  at  night  he  would  rejoin  the  host.  And  he  ordered  the  Earl 
of  Pembroke  to  form  the  rear-guard  with  five  hundred  lances,  and 
wait  for  him  in  the  open  country,  and  the  rest  to  ride  forward. 
The  two  barons  did  all  that  he  had  commanded  them. 


JEAN  FROISSART  189 

He  himself  still  remained  with  the  lady  in  the  Castle  of  Salis- 
bury [i.e.,  belonging  to  the  Earl  of  Salisbury],  having  good  hope 
that  before  his  departure  she  would  give  him  a  more  agreeable 
answer  than  he  had  yet  had  from  her.  He  asked  that  chessmen 
might  be  brought,  and  the  lady  ordered  them  to  be  brought  ac- 
cordingly. Then  the  king  begged  the  lady  to  play  with  him,  and 
the  lady  willingly  consented,  for  she  made  him  the  best  cheer  that 
she  could,  as  indeed  she  was  bound  to  do,  seeing  that  the  king 
had  done  her  an  excellent  service  in  raising  the  siege  of  her  castle 
and  driving  away  the  Scots,  of  whom  she  stood  in  great  peril, — 
and  seeing  also  that  the  king  was  her  right  and  natural  sovereign 
in  faith  and  homage.  At  the  opening  of  the  game  of  chess,  the 
king,  who  wished  to  leave  some  gift  of  his  with  the  lady,  said  to 
her  laughingly:  "Lady,  what  will  it  please  you  to  stake  upon  the 
game?"  And  the  lady  rejoined:  "And  you,  sire?"  Then  the 
king  placed  on  the  board  a  very  beautiful  ruby  ring  which  he 
wore  on  his  finger.  But  the  lady  said:  "  Sire,  sire,  I  have  no  ring 
as  rich  as  yours."  "Lady,"  said  the  king,  "stake  such  as  you 
have.    I  shall  not  look  at  it  so  closely." 

Then  the  countess,  to  gratify  the  king's  wish,  took  from  her 
finger  a  little  ring  of  gold,  which  had  no  great  value.  So  they 
played  at  chess  together,  the  lady  playing  her  best,  in  order  that 
the  king  might  not  take  her  to  be  silly  and  ignorant;  and  the 
king  dissimulating  somewhat,  for  he  did  not  play  as  well  as  he 
could.  And  scarcely  was  there  any  pause  between  the  moves  but 
the  king  looked  at  the  lady  so  fixedly,  that  she  was  quite  con- 
fused, and  thus  made  mistakes  in  her  play.  And  when  the  king 
saw  that  she  had  endangered  a  rook,  or  knight,  or  what  not,  he 
also  made  some  mistake  so  as  to  restore  the  lady's  chances  in 
the  game. 

They  played  till  the  king  lost,  and  was  at  last  checkmated. 
Whereupon  the  lady  rose  and  called  for  wine  and  spices,  for  the 
king  made  as  if  he  wished  to  leave.  And  the  lady  took  her  own 
ring,  and  placed  it  on  her  finger,  and  would  fain  have  induced 


I  go  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

the  king  to  take  his  up  also,  offering  it  to  him,  and  saying:  " Sire, 
it  is  not  fitting  that  in  my  own  house  I  should  receive  aught 
of  yours:  rather  should  you  take  away  something  of  mine." 
"Lady,"  said  the  king,  "not  so;  for  such  has  been  the  fortune  of 
the  game;  and  be  assured  that  if  I  had  won  your  ring  I  should 
have  worn  it."  The  lady  was  im willing  to  press  the  king  further, 
but  she  went  to  one  of  her  damsels,  and  gave  her  the  ring,  saying, 
"When  you  see  that  the  king  has  gone  hence,  and  taken  leave 
of  me,  and  is  about  to  mount  his  horse,  then  go  forward,  and 
give  him  back  his  ring,  and  tell  him  I  will  in  no  wise  keep  it,  for 
it  does  not  belong  to  me."  The  damsel  answered  that  she  would 
do  so  willingly.  As  this  was  being  said,  the  spices  and  wines 
were  brought.  The  king  declared  he  would  not  partake  of  them 
before  the  lady — nor  she  before  him; — and  there  was  a  pleasant 
strife  between  them.  Finally,  so  as  to  cut  the  matter  short,  it 
was  agreed  that  they  should  drink  at  the  same  time.  After  this, 
when  the  king's  knights  had  all  drunk,  the  king  took  his  leave  of 
the  lady,  and  said  out  loud,  so  as  not  to  seem  particular  in  his 
words,  "Lady,  you  are  staying  at  home,  and  I  am  going  to  follow 
my  enemies."  The  lady,  at  these  words,  bowed  very  low  before 
the  king.  And  the  king  took  her  lightly  by  her  right  hand,  and 
pressed  it  a  little,  somewhat  overmuch  in  sooth,  as  a  sign  of  love. 
And  the  king  looked,  and  saw  that  the  knights  and  damsels  were 
busy  taking  leave  of  one  another,  so  he  went  forward  again  to 
speak  as  it  were  but  two  or  three  words  more.  "My  dear  lady, 
may  God  have  you  in  His  keeping  till  I  come  again,  and  I  pray 
you  to  consider  and  to  be  better  advised  in  what  you  have 
said  to  me."  "Dear  lord,"  rejoined  the  lady,  "may  the  Father 
Almighty  lead  you,  and  keep  you  from  all  foul  and  dishonour- 
able thoughts;  for  I  am,  and  always  shall  be,  minded  and 
advised  to  serve  you  in  what  may  be  for  your  honour  and  mine." 
Then  the  king  left  the  apartments,  as  did  the  lady  also, — who 
accompanied  him  to  the  court  where  his  palfrey  stood.  The 
king  said  he  would  not  mount  his  horse  as  long  as  the  lady 


JEAN  FROISSART  191 

remained  there.  So,  to  cut  the  matter  short,  the  countess  took, 
for  that  time,  final  leave  of  the  king  and  of  his  knights,  and  re- 
tired into  her  apartments  with  her  damsels.  And  as  the  king  was 
preparing  to  mount,  the  damsel  who  had  been  so  instructed  by 
her  lady,  came  to  the  king,  and  knelt  before  him ; — and  when  the 
king  saw  it,  he  raised  her  very  quickly,  thinking  she  wished  to 
speak  to  him  to  other  purpose  than  she  actually  did.  ''  My  lord," 
she  said,  "here  is  your  ring,  which  my  lady  sends  back  to  you, 
humbly  praying  that  you  will  not  take  it  ill  if  she  cannot  consent 
to  keep  it  by  her.  You  have  done  so  much  for  her  in  other  man- 
ners, that  she  is  bound,  she  says,  to  be  always  your  servant." 
The  king,  hearing  the  damsel,  and  seeing  his  ring  in  her  hand,  and 
understanding  how  determined  was  the  countess  to  be  excused, 
stood  all  astonished.  Nevertheless,  so  that  he  might  have  his 
wish,  and  so  that  the  ring  might  remain  there,  as  he  had  deter- 
mined with  himself,  he  answered  briefly,  for  it  was  no  occasion 
for  long  speech,  "Damsel,  since  it  does  not  please  your  lady  to 
keep  the  small  stake  she  won  of  me,  let  it  remain  with  you." 
So  speaking  he  mounted  his  palfrey,  and  issued  from  the  castle, 
and  rode  into  the  open  country  with  his  knights,  and  found  the 
Earl  of  Pembroke  waiting  for  him  with  about  five  hundred  lances. 
.  .  .  The  damsel  above  mentioned  going  back  to  her  lady, 
repeated  the  king's  answer,  and  wished  to  return  the  golden  ring 
which  the  king  had  lost  at  chess.  But  the  lady  would  in  nowise 
consent,  and  said  that  she  had  no  claim  to  it,  and  that  as  the 
king  had  given  it  to  the  damsel,  so  she  might  make  her  profit  of 
it.    Thus  the  king's  ring  remained  with  the  damsel. 


192  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

BENVENUTO  CELLINI 

1500-1571 

ESCAPE  FROM  ST.  ANGELQi 

[From  Miss  Anne  Macdonnell's  translation  of  the  Vita  di  Benvenuto 
Cellini  (sections  CVII-CX),  1903. 

Benvenuto,  a  soldier,  roisterer,  braggart,  and  homicide,  and  also  a 
great  sculptor  and  designer,  was  attached  to  the  service  of  Clement 
the  Seventh  as  the  Pope's  jeweller.  In  1527,  during  the  French  inva- 
sion, Benvenuto  had  defended  the  Castle  St.  Angelo  ably  and  bravely, 
killing  the  Constable  de  Bourbon  with  a  cannon  shot  fired  by  his  own 
hand.  Ten  years  later,  on  his  return  to  Rome  from  a  visit  to  the 
court  of  Francis  the  First,  he  was  imprisoned  in  the  very  castle  by 
order  of  Paul  the  Third,  on  the  false  charge  of  having  stolen  at  the 
time  of  the  siege  the  jewels  of  the  pontifical  tiara.] 

The  castellan  was  every  year  the  victim  of  a  certain  infirmity 
which  bereft  him  of  his  wits.  When  it  was  coming  on,  he  would 
speak,  or  rather  he  would  chatter  without  stopping.  These 
humours  of  his  varied  every  year.  One  time  he  thought  he  was 
an  oil  jar;  another  time  a  frog,  and  then  he  jumped  just  like  one. 
Again  he  thought  he  was  dead,  and  he  had  to  be  buried.  Thus 
each  year  he  had  a  different  delusion.  Now  this  time  he  began 
to  imagine  that  he  was  a  bat;  and  when  he  went  for  a  walk,  he 
would  every  now  and  then  give  a  low  scream  as  bats  do,  and  flut- 
ter his  hands  and  his  body  as  if  he  were  going  to  fly.  When  his 
doctors  and  his  old  servants  saw  the  malady  upon  him,  they  in- 
dulged him  in  every  possible  way;  and  since  it  seemed  to  them 
he  took  great  pleasure  in  hearing  me  talk,  they  were  always  fetch- 
ing me  to  keep  him  company.  And  the  poor  man  sometimes  kept 
me  four  or  five  hours  talking  to  him  the  whole  time.  He  had 
me  sit  opposite  him  at  table,  and  he  never  stopped  talking  and 
making  me  talk.  In  spite  of  all  this  conversation  I  ate  well; 
but  he,  poor  man,  neither  ate  nor  slept.    Now  all  this  tired  me 

^  Reprinted  by  kind  permission  of  Messrs.  J.  M.  Dent  and  Sons,  London. 


BENVENUTO  CELLINI  193 

out,  so  that  I  was  at  the  end  of  my  forces.  And  sometimes 
when  I  looked  at  him,  his  eyes  were  terrible  to  see,  one  turning 
one  way  and  one  the  other. 

One  day  he  asked  me  if  I  had  ever  had  a  fancy  to  fly.  I  an- 
swered that  I  had  always  been  most  eager  to  do,  and  had  done, 
such  things  as  come  hardest  to  men;  and  as  for  flying,  the  God  of 
Nature  had  given  me  a  body  more  than  usually  agile  and  fit  for 
running  and  leaping;  and  so  by  the  aid  of  what  Httle  wits  I  pos- 
sessed, I  could  manage  some  kind  of  mechanical  contrivance; 
and  certainly  I  did  not  want  courage  for  the  attempt.  Then  he 
began  to  ask  me  what  methods  I  should  use ;  to  which  I  answered, 
that  if  we  observed  the  flying  creatures,  the  one  whose  natural 
powers  could  best  be  imitated  by  art  was  the  bat.  When  the 
poor  man  heard  that  name  of  bat,  the  mimicry  of  which  was  the 
form  his  mania  took  that  year,  he  cried  with  a  loud  voice  saying, 
*'He  speaks  the  truth,  he  speaks  the  truth!  That's  the  thing — 
the  very  thing!"  Then  turning  to  me,  he  said, ''Ben venuto, 
if  you  had  the  chance,  would  you  have  the  courage  to  fly?" 
Thereupon  I  said  that,  if  he  would  give  me  my  Hberty,  I  had 
pluck  enough  to  fly  as  far  as  Prati,  and  would  make  myself  a 
pair  of  wings  out  of  waxed  linen  for  the  purpose.  Then  he  an- 
swered, "And  I,  too,  should  not  be  behindhand;  but  the  Pope 
has  commanded  me  to  look  after  you  as  the  apple  of  his  eye;  and 
I  know  you  are  a  clever  enough  devil  to  make  your  escape. 
Therefore  I  am  going  to  lock  you  up  with  a  hundred  keys,  so 
that  you  don't  make  off." 

I  entreated  him,  reminding  him  how  I  had  had  opportunities 
of  escape,  but  that,  for  the  sake  of  the  word  I  had  given  him,  I 
had  never  broken  faith.  Then  I  begged  him,  for  the  love  of  God, 
not  to  add  a  greater  misery  to  what  I  was  now  suffering.  But 
even  while  I  was  speaking,  he  gave  strict  orders  for  me  to  be 
bound  and  taken  to  my  prison,  and  there  securely  locked  up. 
Seeing  there  was  no  help  for  it,  I  said  to  him,  in  the  presence 
of  his  household,  "Make  fast  your  locks  and  watch  me  well, 
13 


194  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

for  I  shall  get  out  of  here  one  way  or  another."  Then  they  led 
me  off,  and  shut  me  up  with  the  greatest  care. 

From  that  moment  I  set  to  thinking  about  the  best  means  of 
escape.  As  soon  as  they  had  shut  the  door  on  me,  I  went  about 
examining  the  prison  where  I  lay.  When  I  believed  I  had  cer- 
tainly found  a  way  of  getting  out,  I  began  to  devise  a  means  of 
climbing  down  from  the  high  castle  keep.  Then  I  took  those  new 
sheets  of  mine,  which,  as  I  have  already  said,  I  had  torn  into 
strips  and  well  sewn  together,  and  calculated  what  length  would 
serve  me  to  cHmb  down  by. 

When  I  had  made  up  my  mind  about  this,  and  prepared  every- 
thing, I  laid  my  hands  on  a  pair  of  pincers,  which  I  had  stolen 
from  a  Savoyard  warder  of  the  castle.  This  man  looked  after 
the  barrels  and  the  cisterns;  and  he  also  worked  at  carpentering 
for  his  pleasure.  Now  he  had  several  pincers,  and  amongst  them 
some  huge  solid  ones.  Just  my  affair,  I  thought;  and  I  stole 
them,  and  hid  them  in  the  mattress.  Then  the  time  came  for 
me  to  use  the  tool,  and  I  began  to  try  the  nails  of  the  hinges. 
As  the  door  was  a  double  one,  the  riveting  of  the  nails  could  not 
be  seen,  so  that  when  I  tried  to  draw  one  out,  it  gave  me  the 
greatest  trouble;  but  in  the  end  I  succeeded.  When  I  had  drawn 
out  the  first  nail,  I  bethought  me  how  I  should  contrive  that  this 
should  not  be  seen.  I  managed  it  by  mixing  some  little  rusty 
iron  filings  with  a  Httle  wax,  getting  just  the  very  colour  of  those 
long  nails  I  had  taken  out.  With  this  I  began  carefully  imitating 
the  nails  in  the  supports  of  the  hinges;  and  by  degrees  made  a 
waxen  counterfeit  for  every  one  I  drew  out.  I  left  the  hinges  still 
attached  at  top  and  bottom  with  some  of  the  old  nails,  which, 
however,  I  only  put  back  after  they  had  been  cut,  and  then  only 
lightly,  so  that  they  just  held  the  hinge-plates  and  no  more. 

This  business  gave  me  a  deal  of  trouble;  for  the  castellan 
dreamt  each  night  that  I  had  escaped,  and  every  now  and  then 
he  sent  to  have  my  prison  examined.  The  man  who  came  to  in- 
vestigate had  a  bum-baiUff's  name,  Bozza,  and  behaved  as  such. 


BENVENUTO  CELLINI  195 

He  always  brought  with  him  another  fellow  called  Giovanni, 
surnamed  Pedignone.  He  was  a  soldier,  and  Bozza  was  a 
menial.  This  Giovanni  never  once  came  to  my  prison  without 
insulting  me.  He  was  from  Prato,  where  he  had  been  an 
apothecary.  Every  evening  he  examined  the  hinges  and  the 
whole  prison  very  carefully;  and  I  would  say  to  him,  "Keep  a 
good  look-out  on  me,  for  I  am  going  to  slip  through  your  hands 
for  a  certainty." 

These  words  stirred  up  a  furious  hatred  between  him  and  me. 
So  with  the  utmost  care  I  hid  up  my  implements,  that  is,  the 
pincers,  a  large  dagger,  and  other  things  pertaining  to  my  plan, 
in  my  mattress,  along  with  the  strips  I  had  made.  As  soon  as 
daylight  came  I  used  to  sweep  my  room;  and  though  by  nature 
I  like  cleanUness,  I  kept  my  place  in  specially  good  order  then. 
When  I  had  done  my  sweeping,  I  arranged  my  bed  beautifully, 
and  laid  flowers  on  it,  which  I  had  a  certain  Savoyard  bring  me 
almost  every  morning.  This  was  the  Savoyard  who  had  charge 
of  the  cisterns  and  barrels,  and  who  worked  at  carpentering  for 
his  pleasure.  It  was  from  him  I  stole  the  pincers  with  which  I 
picked  out  the  nails  from  the  hinge-plates. 

Now  to  return  to  what  I  was  saying  about  my  bed.  When 
Bozza  and  Pedignone  came  in,  I  told  them  they  were  to  keep  at 
a  due  distance  from  it,  that  they  might  not  foul  and  spoil  it. 
When  sometimes,  just  to  annoy  me,  they  would  touch  it  Hghtly, 
I  would  cry  to  them,  "Oh,  you  dirty  cowards!  I'll  get  hold  of 
those  swords  of  yours,  and  serve  you  a  turn  that  will  astonish 
you !  Do  you  think  yourselves  good  enough  to  touch  the  bed  of 
a  man  of  my  sort?  No  care  for  my  own  Hfe  shall  hold  me  back, 
for  I  am  sure  to  take  yours.  So  leave  me  alone  with  my  troubles 
and  my  tribulations,  and  don't  add  to  them;  otherwise,  I'll  let 
you  see  what  a  desperate  man  can  do."  All  this  they  told  to 
the  castellan.  But  he  expressly  ordered  them  not  to  go  near 
my  bed,  and  to  come  to  me  without  their  swords;  for  the  rest, 
they  were  to  keep  a  sharp  look-out  on  me. 


196  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

When  I  was  thus  sure  about  the  bed,  I  thought  I  had  done 
everything,  for  therein  lay  what  I  needed  most  for  the  busi- 
ness. One  feast  night,  when  the  castellan  was  feeling  very  ill, 
and  his  humours  were  at  their  height,  he  kept  on  saying  that 
he  was  a  bat;  and  if  they  heard  that  Benvenuto  had  flown 
away,  they  were  to  let  him  go,  for  he  would  overtake  me,  since 
at  night-time  he  could  certainly  fly  better  than  I.  ''  Benvenuto," 
said  he,  "is  only  a  sham  bat,  but  I'm  a  real  one.  And  since  he's 
been  given  into  my  keeping,  leave  the  business  to  me,  for  I'll 
come  up  with  him."  He  had  been  in  this  condition  for  several 
nights,  and  had  tired  out  all  his  servants.  And  I  heard  about 
it  through  different  channels,  but  especially  from  the  Savoyard, 
who  was  a  friend  of  mine. 

This  feast-day  evening  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  escape  at  all 
hazards.  First  I  prayed  most  devoutly  to  God,  entreating  His 
Divine  Majesty  to  defend  me,  and  aid  me  in  my  perilous  enter- 
prise. Then  I  prepared  everything  I  needed  for  the  business, 
working  all  through  that  night.  When  day  was  but  two  hours 
off,  I  removed  the  hinges  with  the  greatest  trouble.  But  the 
wooden  frame  and  the  bolt  also  resisted,  so  that  I  could  not  open 
the  door,  and  had,  therefore,  to  cut  the  wood.  At  last  I  suc- 
ceeded; and  then  carrying  the  strips  of  linen,  which  I  had  rolled 
round  two  pieces  of  wood  Hke  flax  on  a  spindle,  I  made  my  way 
out  towards  the  privies  of  the  keep.  From  inside  I  perceived  two 
tiles  on  the  roof,  and  thus  I  could  climb  up  at  once  with  the  great- 
est ease.  I  was  wearing  at  the  time  a  white  jerkin,  white  hosen, 
and  a  pair  of  buskins,  into  which  I  thrust  my  dagger.  Taking 
one  end  of  my  Unen  rope,  I  tied  it  in  the  form  of  a  stirrup  round 
a  piece  of  antique  tile  which  was  built  into  the  wall,  and  which 
stuck  out  hardly  the  length  of  four  fingers.  This  done,  I  turned 
my  face  to  God,  and  said,  "O  Lord  my  God,  defend  my  cause! 
for  Thou  knowest  it  is  good;  and  that  I  help  myself."  Then  I 
let  myself  go  gently,  and  supporting  myself  by  the  strength  of 
my  arms,  I  reached  the  bottom. 


BENVENUTO  CELLINI  197 

The  moon  was  not  shining,  but  the  sky  was  fair  and  clear. 
When  my  feet  were  on  the  ground,  I  regarded  the  great  descent 
I  had  made  so  bravely,  and  went  off  much  heartened,  for  I 
thought  I  was  free.  But  it  was  not  so;  for  on  that  side  the  cas- 
tellan had  had  two  very  high  walls  bmlt  enclosing  a  poultry-run. 
This  place  was  barred  with  great  bolts  on  the  other  side.  When 
I  saw  my  way  thus  stopped,  I  was  much  vexed;  but  while  walk- 
ing to  and  fro,  thinking  what  I  should  best  do,  I  fell  up  against  a 
large  beam  which  had  been  covered  up  with  straw.  With  great 
difficulty  I  set  it  up  against  the  wall.  Then  by  force  of  arm  I 
climbed  up  on  it  to  the  top.  But  as  the  wall  was  pointed,  I  was 
not  solidly  enough  placed  there  to  draw  the  pole  up  after  me. 
So  I  determined  to  use  a  piece  of  the  second  rope  of  linen,  as  the 
other  I  had  left  hanging  from  the  keep.  Well,  binding  it  fast 
to  the  beam,  I  cUmbed  down  by  it  on  the  other  side.  This  was 
very  far  from  easy.  I  was  quite  worn  out  at  the  end;  and,  be- 
sides, I  had  galled  the  palms  of  my  hands,  so  that  they  bled. 
I  therefore  stayed  to  rest  a  while,  and  bathed  my  hands  in  my 
own  urine. 

When  I  felt  sufficiently  recovered,  I  made  my  way  to  the  last 
wall,  which  looks  towards  Prati.  There  I  laid  down  my  Hnen 
rope,  intending  to  fix  it  to  a  battlement,  and  get  down  from  the 
lesser  height  as  I  had  done  from  the  greater.  But  just  at  that 
moment  I  discovered  that  behind  me  was  one  of  the  sentinels  on 
duty.  Seeing  here  a  hindrance  to  my  plans,  and  knowing  my 
life  in  danger,  I  made  up  my  mind  boldly  to  face  the  guard,  who, 
perceiving  my  resolute  demeanour,  and  that  I  was  coming  to- 
wards him  with  a  weapon  in  my  hand,  quickened  his  step,  and 
made  as  if  to  keep  out  of  my  way.  I  had  left  my  ropes  some 
way  off;  now  I  quickly  turned  back  for  them,  and  though  I  saw 
another  sentinel,  yet  he  appeared  unwilHng  to  see  me. 

When  I  had  picked  up  my  linen  ropes,  I  tied  them  to  the  bat- 
tlement, and  let  myself  go.  But  either  I  thought  that  I  had  al- 
most reached  the  ground,  while  I  was  still  some  distance  off,  and 


198  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

let  go  my  hands  and  jumped;  or  else  my  hands  were  too  feeble 
to  keep  up  the  effort.  At  all  events  I  fell,  and  in  falling,  I  struck 
the  back  of  my  head,  and  lay  there  unconscious  more  than  an 
hour  and  a  half,  so  far  as  I  could  judge. 

The  day  was  about  to  break,  and  the  fresh,  cool  air  that 
comes  before  the  rising  of  the  sun  brought  me  to  my  senses; 
but  yet  my  wits  were  not  quite  clear,  for  I  thought  my  head 
was  cut  off,  and  that  I  was  in  purgatory.  Little  by  little  my 
powers  came  back  to  me,  and  I  saw  that  I  was  outside  the 
castle,  and  had  a  sudden  remembrance  of  all  I  had  done. 
Now  I  felt  the  hurt  to  my  head  before  I  perceived  that  my 
leg  was  broken;  for  putting  up  my  hands,  I  found  them  all 
covered  with  blood.  But  examining  the  place  thoroughly,  I 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  wound  was  not  serious. 
When,  however,  I  wanted  to  get  up  from  the  ground,  I  found 
my  right  leg  broken  three  inches  above  the  knee.  But  even 
this  did  not  discourage  me.  I  drew  out  my  dagger  in  its 
sheath,  at  the  end  of  which  was  a  large  ball.  This  it  was  which 
had  broken  my  leg;  for  the  bone  had  been  jammed  against  the 
ball,  and  unable  to  bend,  had  snapped  just  there.  So  I  threw 
away  the  sheath;  and  with  the  dagger  I  cut  off  a  piece  of  the 
remainder  of  the  Unen  strip,  and  as  well  as  I  could  bound  up  my 
leg.  Then,  my  weapon  in  my  hand,  I  crept  on  all  fours  towards 
the  gate. 

I  reached  it  only  to  find  it  shut;  but  I  saw  a  stone  just  under 
the  door,  and  as  I  thought  it  was  probably  not  stuck  very  fast, 
I  tried  to  move  it.  Putting  my  hands  to  it,  I  felt  it  move; 
it  yielded  at  once,  and  I  drew  it  out.  Then  I  crawled  through 
the  hole  it  had  stopped  up. 

There  had  been  more  than  five  hundred  paces  from  the  place 
where  I  fell,  to  the  gate  by  which  I  entered  the  city.  When  I  got 
inside  Rome,  some  mastiffs  threw  themselves  on  me  and  bit  me 
viciously.  They  set  on  me  several  times  and  worried  me,  till  at 
last  I  drew  my  dagger  and  dealt  one  of  them  such  a  blow  that 


BENVENUTO  CELLINI  199 

he  yelped  loudly.  Then  the  other  dogs,  as  their  habit  is,  gathered 
about  him,  while  I  made  haste,  on  hands  and  knees,  towards  the 
church  of  the  Traspontina.  When  I  reached  the  mouth  of  the 
street  which  turns  towards  Sant'  Agnolo,  I  took  the  road  to 
St.  Peter's;  for  day  was  breaking  above  me,  and  I  knew  I  was  in 
danger.  So  meeting  a  water-carrier  with  his  ass  laden  with  full 
pitchers,  I  called  him  to  me,  and  begged  him  to  lift  me  up  and 
carry  me  to  the  terrace  by  St.  Peter's  steps;  explaining  that  I 
was  a  poor  young  man  who,  in  getting  down  from  the  window  of 
my  lady,  had  fallen  and  broken  my  leg.  The  house  I  came  out  of 
was  of  great  importance,  I  told  him,  and  I  was  in  danger  of  being 
cut  in  pieces.  So  I  begged  him  to  carry  me  off  quickly,  promising 
him  a  golden  crown  for  his  pains.  And  at  the  word  I  gave  him  a 
sight  of  my  purse,  which  was  by  no  means  empty.  He  took  hold 
of  me  at  once,  hoisted  me  on  his  back  with  a  good  will,  and  car- 
ried me  to  the  open  space  above  the  steps  of  St.  Peter's.  There 
he  put  me  down,  and  I  told  him  to  run  back  to  his  ass. 

At  once  I  took  the  road  again,  crawling  on  all  fours  towards  the 
house  of  the  Duchess,  the  wife  of  Duke  Ottavio.  She  was  the 
natural  daughter  of  the  Emperor,  and  had  been  the  wife  of 
Duke  Alessandro  of  Florence.  Now  I  knew  that  with  this  great 
princess  I  should  find  many  of  my  friends,  who  had  come  with 
her  from  Florence.  Besides,  I  was  in  her  favour,  for  the  castellan 
had  spoken  well  of  me  in  her  presence.  Wishing  to  help  me,  he 
had  said  to  the  Pope  one  day,  that  when  the  Duchess  made  her 
entry  into  Rome,  I  had  saved  them  more  than  a  thousand  crowns. 
The  heavy  rain  had  threatened  great  damage  to  the  city;  and  he 
had  been  in  despair.  But  I  had  put  heart  into  him;  for,  as  he 
told,  I  had  pointed  several  heavy  pieces  of  artillery  towards  that 
part  of  the  sky  where  the  clouds  were  thickest,  and  from  whence 
torrents  of  water  had  already  begun  to  pour.  When  the  artillery 
was  discharged,  the  rain  stopped,  and  at  the  fourth  round  the 
sun  came  out.  Thus,  said  he,  I  had  been  the  sole  cause  of  the 
festa  passing  off  so  happily.    When  the  Duchess  heard  it,  she 


200  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

said,  "This  Benvenuto  is  one  of  the  artists  who  were  in  the  good 
graces  of  my  husband,  Duke  Alessandro;  and  I  shall  always 
keep  them  in  mind  when  an  opportunity  comes  to  do  them  a  good 
turn."  She  had  also  spoken  of  me  to  her  present  husband,  Duke 
Ottavio. 

So  now  I  made  straight  for  the  house  of  her  Excellency,  a  very 
fine  palace  in  Borgo  Vecchio.  And  there  I  should  have  been 
quite  safe,  and  the  Pope  could  not  have  touched  me.  But  as  the 
thing  I  had  done  was  beyond  the  powers  of  an  ordinary  human 
creature,  God  wished  to  check  my  vainglory  through  a  still  harder 
discipUne  than  I  had  known  in  the  past.  And  this  was  how  it 
came  about.  While  I  was  creeping  on  all  fours  up  the  steps,  a 
servant  of  Cardinal  Cornaro's  household  recognised  me.  Now, 
as  it  happened,  the  Cardinal  was  lodging  in  the  palace,  and  the 
servant  ran  to  his  master's  room,  and  waking  him,  said,  "Most 
reverend  monsignor,  your  Benvenuto  is  below.  He  has  escaped 
from  the  castle,  and  is  crawhng  along  on  hands  and  knees,  and 
covered  with  blood.  It  looks  as  if  he  had  broken  his  leg,  and  we 
do  not  know  where  he  is  going."  The  Cardinal  said  at  once, 
"  Run  and  carry  him  into  my  room  here."  When  I  was  brought 
to  him,  he  told  me  to  have  no  fear.  Then  he  sent  at  once  for  the 
best  doctors  in  Rome,  and  by  them  I  was  treated.  One  of  them 
was  Maestro  Jacomo  of  Perugia,  a  most  excellent  surgeon.  He 
set  my  leg  very  skilfully,  then  bandaged  it,  and  with  his  own 
hand  bled  me.  My  veins  were  unusually  swollen,  and,  besides, 
he  wished  to  make  a  rather  large  incision;  so  the  blood  sputtered 
furiously  out  in  his  face,  and  bespattered  him  so  abundantly  that 
he  had  to  stop  his  operations.  This  he  took  to  be  a  very  bad 
augury;  and  it  was  with  great  reluctance  that  he  went  on  treat- 
ing me.  Several  times,  in  truth,  he  would  fain  have  left  me,  re- 
membering that  he  was  risking  no  slight  penalty  in  doctoring  me, 
or  at  least  in  continuing  his  attendance.  The  Cardinal  had  me 
put  in  a  secret  chamber,  and  went  off  at  once  to  the  palace  to  beg 
me  from  the  Pope. 


DANIEL  DEFOE  201 

DANIEL  DEFOE 

i659?-i73i 

LONDON  IN  THE  PLAGUE 

[From  A  Journal  of  the  Plague  Year,  sometimes  called  A  History  of  the 
Plague  in  London,  1722. 

In  the  year  of  the  great  plague,  1665,  Defoe  may  have  been  six  years 
of  age.  Though  he  reports  as  if  he  had  witnessed  them,  he  must  have 
learned  the  facts  at  second-hand — if  he  did  not  invent  them.] 

Much  about  the  same  time  I  walked  out  into  the  fields  towards 
Bow;  for  I  had  a  great  mind  to  see  how  things  were  managed  in 
the  river  and  among  the  ships;  and  as  I  had  some  concern  in 
shipping,  I  had  a  notion  that  it  had  been  one  of  the  best  ways  of 
securing  one's  self  from  the  infection  to  have  retired  into  a  ship; 
and  musing  how  to  satisfy  my  curiosity  in  that  point,  I  turned 
away  over  the  fields  from  Bow  to  Bromley,  and  down  to  Black- 
wall  to  the  stairs,  which  are  there  for  landing  or  taking  water. 

Here  I  saw  a  poor  man  walking  on  the  bank,  or  sea-wall,  as 
they  call  it,  by  himself.  I  walked  a  while  also  about,  seeing  the 
houses  all  shut  up.  At  last  I  fell  into  some  talk,  at  a  distance, 
with  this  poor  man;  first  I  asked  him  how  people  did  thereabouts. 
"Alas,  sir!"  says  he,  "almost  desolate;  all  dead  or  sick.  Here 
are  very  few  families  in  this  part,  or  in  that  village"  (pointing  at 
Poplar),  "where  half  of  them  are  not  dead  already,  and  the  rest 
sick."  Then  he  pointing  to  one  house,  "  There  they  are  all  dead," 
said  he,  " and  the  house  stands  open;  nobody  dares  go  into  it.  A 
poor  thief,"  says  he,  "ventured  in  to  steal  something,  but  he  paid 
dear  for  his  theft,  for  he  was  carried  to  the  churchyard  too  last 
night."  Then  he  pointed  to  several  other  houses.  "There," 
says  he,  "they  are  all  dead,  the  man  and  his  wife,  and  five  chil- 
dren. There,"  says  he,  "they  are  shut  up;  you  see  a  watchman 
at  the  door;"  and  so  of  other  houses. 

"Why,"  says  I,  "what  do  you  here  all  alone?" 


202  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

''Why,"  says  he,  "I  am  a  poor,  desolate  man;  it  has  pleased 
God  I  am  not  yet  visited,  though  my  family  is,  and  one  of  my 
children  dead." 

"How  do  you  mean,  then,"  said  I,  "that  you  are  not  visited?" 

"Why,"  says  he,  " that 's  my  house"  (pointing  to  a  very  Httle, 
low-boarded  house),  "and  there  my  poor  wife  and  two  children 
live,"  said  he,  "if  they  may  be  said  to  Uve,  for  my  wife  and  one 
of  the  children  are  visited,  but  I  do  not  come  at  them."  And 
with  that  word  I  saw  the  tears  run  very  plentifully  down  his 
face;  and  so  they  did  down  mine  too,  I  assure  you. 

"But,"  said  I,  "why  do  you  not  come  at  them?  How  can  you 
abandon  your  own  flesh  and  blood?" 

"Oh,  sir,"  says  he,  "  the  Lord  forbid!  I  do  not  abandon  them; 
I  work  for  them  as  much  as  I  am  able;  and,  blessed  be  the 
Lord,  I  keep  them  from  want";  and  with  that  I  observed  he 
lifted  up  his  eyes  to  heaven,  with  a  countenance  that  presently 
told  me  I  had  happened  on  a  man  that  was  no  hypocrite,  but  a 
serious,  reHgious,  good  man,  and  his  ejaculation  was  an  expression 
of  thankfulness  that,  in  such  a  condition  as  he  was  in,  he  should 
be  able  to  say  his  family  did  not  want. 

"Well,"  says  I,  "honest  man,  that  is  a  great  mercy  as  things 
go  now  with  the  poor.  But  how  do  you  live,  then,  and  how  are 
you  kept  from  the  dreadful  calamity  that  is  now  upon  us  all?" 

"  Why,  sir,"  says  he,  "I  am  a  waterman,  and  there 's  my  boat," 
says  he,  "  and  the  boat  serves  me  for  a  house.  I  work  in  it  in  the 
day,  and  I  sleep  in  it  in  the  night;  and  what  I  get  I  lay  down 
upon  that  stone,"  says  he,  showing  me  a  broad  stone  on  the  other 
side  of  the  street,  a  good  way  from  his  house;  "and  then,"  says 
he,  "I  halloo,  and  call  to  them  till  I  make  them  hear;  and  they 
come  and  fetch  it." 

"Well,  friend,"  says  I,  "but  how  can  you  get  any  money  as  a 
waterman?    Does  anybody  go  by  water  these  times?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  says  he,  "in  the  way  I  am  employed  there  does. 
Do  you  see  there,"  says  he,  "five  ships  lie  at  anchor"  (pointing 


DANIEL  DEFOE  203 

down  the  river  a  good  way  below  the  town),  "and  do  you  see," 
says  he,  "eight  or  ten  ships  he  at  the  chain  there,  and  at  anchor 
yonder?"  (pointing  above  the  town).  "All  those  ships  have 
families  on  board,  of  their  merchants  and  owners,  and  such-Uke, 
who  have  locked  themselves  up  and  live  on  board,  close  shut  in, 
for  fear  of  the  infection;  and  I  tend  on  them  to  fetch  things  for 
them,  carry  letters,  and  do  what  is  absolutely  necessary,  that 
they  may  not  be  obliged  to  come  on  shore;  and  every  night  I 
fasten  my  boat  on  board  one  of  the  ship's  boats,  and  there  I  sleep 
by  myself,  and,  blessed  be  God,  I  am  preserved  hitherto." 

"Well,"  said  I,  "friend,  but  will  they  let  you  come  on  board 
after  you  have  been  on  shore  here,  when  this  is  such  a  terrible 
place,  and  so  infected  as  it  is?" 

"Why,  as  to  that,"  said  he,  "I  very  seldom  go  up  the  ship-side, 
but  deliver  what  I  bring  to  their  boat,  or  lie  by  the  side,  and  they 
hoist  it  on  board.  If  I  did,  I  think  they  are  in  no  danger  from 
me,  for  I  never  go  into  any  house  on  shore,  or  touch  anybody,  no, 
not  of  my  own  family;  but  I  fetch  pro\'isions  for  them." 

"Nay,"  says  I,  "but  that  may  be  worse,  for  you  must  have 
those  provisions  of  somebody  or  other;  and  since  all  this  part  of 
the  town  is  so  infected,  it  is  dangerous  so  much  as  to  speak  with 
anybody,  for  the  village,"  said  I,  "is,  as  it  were,  the  beginning  of 
London,  though  it  be  at  some  distance  from  it." 

"That  is  true,"  added  he;  "but  you  do  not  understand  me 
right;  I  do  not  buy  provisions  for  them  here.  I  row  up  to  Green- 
wich and  buy  fresh  meat  there,  and  sometimes  I  row  down  the 
river  to  Woolwich  and  buy  there;  then  I  go  to  single  farm-houses 
on  the  Kentish  side,  where  I  am  known,  and  buy  fowls  and  eggs 
and  butter,  and  bring  to  the  ships,  as  they  direct  me,  sometimes 
one,  sometimes  the  other.  I  seldom  come  on  shore  here,  and  I 
came  now  only  to  call  to  my  wife  and  hear  how  my  little  family 
do,  and  give  them  a  little  money,  which  I  received  last  night." 

"Poor  man!"  said  I;  "and  how  much  hast  thou  gotten  for 
them?" 


204  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

"I  have  gotten  four  shillings,"  said  he,  "which  is  a  great  sum, 
as  things  go  now  with  poor  men;  but  they  have  given  me  a  bag 
of  bread  too,  and  a  salt  fish  and  some  flesh;  so  all  helps  out." 

"Well,"  said  I,  "and  have  you  given  it  them  yet?" 

' '  No, "  said  he ;"  but  I  have  called,  and  my  wife  has  answered  that 
she  cannot  come  out  yet,  but  in  half-an-hour  she  hopes  to  come, 
and  I  am  waiting  for  her.  Poor  woman !"  says  he, "  she  is  brought 
sadly  down.  She  has  a  swelling,  and  it  is  broke,  and  I  hope  she 
will  recover;  but  I  fear  the  child  will  die,  but  it  is  the  Lord — " 

Here  he  stopped,  and  wept  very  much. 

"Well,  honest  friend,"  said  I,  "thou  hast  a  sure  Comforter,  if 
thou  hast  brought  thyself  to  be  resigned  to  the  will  of  God;  He  is 
deahng  with  us  all  in  judgment." 

"Oh,  sir!"  says  he,  "it  is  infinite  mercy  if  any  of  us  are  spared, 
and  who  am  I  to  repine!" 

" Sayest  thou  so?"  said  I,  "and  how  much  less  is  my  faith  than 
thine?"  And  here  my  heart  smote  me,  suggesting  how  much 
better  this  poor  man's  foundation  was  on  which  he  stayed  in  the 
danger  than  mine;  that  he  had  nowhere  to  fly;  that  he  had  a 
family  to  bind  him  to  attendance,  which  I  had  not;  and  mine  was 
mere  presumption,  his  a  true  dependence,  and  a  courage  resting 
on  God;  and  yet  that  he  used  all  possible  caution  for  his  safety. 

I  turned  a  Uttle  way  from  the  man  while  these  thoughts  en- 
gaged me,  for,  indeed,  I  could  no  more  refrain  from  tears  than  he. 

At  length,  after  some  further  talk,  the  poor  woman  opened  the 
door  and  called,  "Robert,  Robert."  He  answered,  and  bid  her 
stay  a  few  moments  and  he  would  come;  so  he  ran  down  the 
common  stairs  to  his  boat  and  fetched  up  a  sack,  in  which  was 
the  provisions  he  had  brought  from  the  ships;  and  when  he  re- 
turned he  hallooed  again.  Then  he  went  to  the  great  stone  which 
he  showed  me  and  emptied  the  sack,  and  laid  all  out,  everything 
by  themselves,  and  then  retired;  and  his  wife  came  with  a  httle 
boy  to  fetch  them  away,  and  he  called  and  said  such  a  captain 
had  sent  such  a  thing,  and  such  a  captain  such  a  thing,  and  at  the 


DANIEL  DEFOE  205 

end  adds,  "  God  has  sent  it  all;  give  thanks  to  Him."  When  the 
poor  woman  had  taken  up  all,  she  was  so  weak  she  could  not 
carry  it  at  once  in,  though  the  weight  was  not  much  neither;  so 
she  left  the  biscuit,  which  was  in  a  little  bag,  and  left  a  little  boy 
to  watch  it  till  she  came  again. 

"Well,  but,"  says  I  to  him,  "did  you  leave  her  the  four  shil- 
lings too,  which  you  said  was  your  week's  pay?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  says  he;  "you  shall  hear  her  own  it."  So  he  calls 
again,  "Rachel,  Rachel,"  which,  it  seems,  was  her  name,  "did 
you  take  up  the  money?" 

"Yes,"  said  she. 

"How  much  was  it?"  said  he. 

"Four  shillings  and  a  groat,"  said  she. 

"Well,  well,"  says  he,  "the  Lord  keep  you  all";  and  so  he 
turned  to  go  away. 

As  I  could  not  refrain  contributing  tears  to  this  man's  story,  so 
neither  could  I  refrain  my  charity  for  his  assistance.  So  I  called 
him,  "Hark  thee,  friend,"  said  I,  "come  hither,  for  I  believe  thou 
art  in  health,  that  I  may  venture  thee;"  so  I  pulled  out  my  hand, 
which  was  in  my  pocket  before,  "Here,"  says  I,  "go  and  call  thy 
Rachel  once  more,  and  give  her  a  Httle  more  comfort  from  me. 
God  will  never  forsake  a  family  that  trust  in  Him  as  thou  dost." 
So  I  gave  him  four  other  shillings,  and  bid  him  go  lay  them  on 
the  stone  and  call  his  wife. 

I  have  not  words  to  express  the  poor  man's  thankfulness, 
neither  could  he  express  it  himself  but  by  tears  running  down  his 
face.  He  called  his  wife,  and  told  her  God  had  moved  the  heart 
of  a  stranger,  upon  hearing  their  condition,  to  give  them  all  that 
money,  and  a  great  deal  more  such  as  that  he  said  to  her.  The 
woman,  too,  made  signs  of  the  like  thankfulness,  as  well  to 
Heaven  as  to  me,  and  joyfully  picked  it  up;  and  I  parted  with  no 
money  all  that  year  that  I  thought  better  bestowed. 

I  then  asked  the  poor  man  if  the  distemper  had  not  reached  to 
Greenwich.    He  said  it  had  not  till  about  a  fortnight  before;  but 


2o6  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

that  then  he  feared  it  had,  but  that  it  was  only  at  that  end  of  the 
town  which  lay  south  towards  Deptford  Bridge;  that  he  went 
only  to  a  butcher's  shop  and  a  grocer's,  where  he  generally  bought 
such  things  as  they  sent  him  for,  but  was  very  careful. 

I  asked  him  then  how  it  came  to  pass  that  those  people  who 
had  so  shut  themselves  up  in  the  ships  had  not  laid  in  sufficient 
stores  of  all  things  necessary.  He  said  some  of  them  had,  but, 
on  the  other  hand,  some  did  not  come  on  board  till  they  were 
frighted  into  it,  and  till  it  was  too  dangerous  for  them  to  go  to 
the  proper  people  to  lay  in  quantities  of  things,  and  that  he 
waited  on  two  ships,  which  he  showed  me,  that  had  laid  in  little 
or  nothing  but  biscuit  bread  and  ship  beer,  and  that  he  had 
bought  everything  else  almost  for  them.  I  asked  him  if  there 
was  any  more  ships  that  had  separated  themselves  as  those  had 
done.  He  told  me  yes,  all  the  way  up  from  the  point,  right 
against  Greenwich,  to  within  the  shore  of  Limehouse  and  Red- 
rifif,  all  the  ships  that  could  have  room  rid  two  and  two  in  the 
middle  of  the  stream,  and  that  some  of  them  had  several  famiHes 
on  board.  I  asked  him  if  the  distemper  had  not  reached  them. 
He  said  he  believed  it  had  not,  except  two  or  three  ships,  whose 
people  had  not  been  so  watchful  to  keep  the  seamen  from  going 
on  shore,  as  others  had  been,  and  he  said  it  was  a  very  fine  sight 
to  see  how  the  ships  lay  up  the  Pool. 

When  he  said  he  was  going  over  to  Greenwich  as  soon  as 
the  tide  began  to  come  in,  I  asked  if  he  would  4et  me  go  with 
him,  and  bring  me  back,  for  that  I  had  a  great  mind  to  see  how 
the  ships  were  ranged,  as  he  had  told  me.  He  told  me,  if  I 
would  assure  him  on  the  word  of  a  Christian  and  of  an  honest 
man,  that  I  had  not  the  distemper,  he  would.  I  assured  him  that 
I  had  not;  that  it  had  pleased  God  to  preserve  me;  that  I  Hved 
in  Whitechapel,  but  was  too  impatient  of  being  so  long  within 
doors,  and  that  I  had  ventured  out  so  far  for  the  refreshment  of 
a  little  air,  but  that  none  in  my  house  had  so  much  as  been 
touched  with  it. 


DANIEL  DEFOE  207 

"Well,  sir,"  says  he,  "as  your  charity  has  been  moved  to  pity 
me  and  my  poor  family,  sure  you  cannot  have  so  little  pity  left 
as  to  put  yourself  into  my  boat  if  you  were  not  sound  in  health, 
which  would  be  nothing  less  than  killing  me,  and  ruining  my 
whole  family."  The  poor  man  troubled  me  so  much  when  he 
spoke  of  his  family  with  such  a  sensible  concern,  and  in  such  an 
affectionate  manner,  that  I  could  not  satisfy  myself  at  first  to  go 
at  all.  I  told  him  I  would  lay  aside  my  curiosity  rather  than 
make  him  uneasy,  though  I  was  sure,  and  very  thankful  for  it, 
that  I  had  no  more  distemper  upon  me  than  the  freshest  man  in 
the  world.  Well,  he  would  not  have  me  put  it  off  neither,  but, 
to  let  me  see  how  confident  he  was  that  I  was  just  to  him,  now 
importimed  me  to  go;  so  when  the  tide  came  up  to  his  boat  I 
went  in,  and  he  carried  me  to  Greenwich.  While  he  bought  the 
things  which  he  had  in  his  charge  to  buy,  I  walked  up  to  the  top 
of  the  hill  under  which  the  town  stands,  and  on  the  east  side  of 
the  town,  to  get  a  prospect  of  the  river.  But  it  was  a  surprising 
sight  to  see  the  number  of  ships  which  lay  in  rows,  two  and  two, 
and  some  places  two  or  three  such  lines  in  the  breadth  of  the 
river,  and  this  not  only  up  quite  to  the  town,  between  the  houses 
which  we  call  Ratcliff  and  Redriff,  which  they  name  the  Pool, 
but  even  down  the  whole  river,  as  far  as  the  head  of  Long  Reach, 
which  is  as  far  as  the  hills  give  us  leave  to  see  it. 

I  cannot  guess  at  the  number  of  ships,  but  I  think  there  must 
be  several  hundreds  of  sail;  and  I  could  not  but  applaud  the  con- 
trivance, for  ten  thousand  people,  and  more,  who  attended  ship 
affairs  were  certainly  sheltered  here  from  the  violence  of  the 
contagion,  and  lived  very  safe  and  very  easy. 

I  returned  to  my  own  dwelling  very  well  satisfied  with  my 
day's  journey,  and  particularly  with  the  poor  man;  also,  I  re- 
joiced to  see  that  such  little  sanctuaries  were  provided  for  so 
many  families  in  a  time  of  such  desolation.  I  observed  also,  that 
as  the  violence  of  the  plague  had  increased,  so  the  ships  which  had 
families  on  board  removed  and  went  farther  off,  till,  as  I  was 


2o8  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

told,  some  went  quite  away  to  sea,  and  put  into  such  harbours 
and  safe  roads  on  the  north  coast  as  they  could  best  come  at. 

But  it  was  also  true  that  all  the  people  who  thus  left  the 
land  and  Uved  on  board  the  ships  were  not  entirely  safe  from 
the  infection,  for  many  died  and  were  thrown  overboard  into  the 
river,  some  in  coffins,  and  some,  as  I  heard,  without  coffins, 
whose  bodies  were  seen  sometimes  to  drive  up  and  down  with 
the  tide  in  the  river. 

But  I  believe  I  may  venture  to  say  that  in  those  ships  which 
were  thus  infected  it  either  happened  where  the  people  had 
recourse  to  them  too  late,  and  did  not  fly  to  the  ship  till  they  had 
stayed  too  long  on  shore  and  had  the  distemper  upon  them, 
though  perhaps  they  might  not  perceive  it,  and  so  the  distemper 
did  not  come  to  them  on  board  the  ships,  but  they  really  carried 
it  with  them;  or  it  was  in  these  ships  where  the  poor  waterman 
said  they  had  not  had  time  to  furnish  themselves  with  provisions, 
but  were  obliged  to  send  often  on  shore  to  buy  what  they  had 
occasion  for,  or  suffered  boats  to  come  to  them  from  the  shore. 
And  so  the  distemper  was  brought  insensibly  among  them. 


BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN 

lyod-iYgo 
A  JOURNEY  TO  PHILADELPHIA  IN  1723 

[From  the  Autobiography^  dated  1771,  first  published,  1868. 

Franklin  had  been  bound  an  apprentice  to  his  elder  brother  James, 
a  Boston  printer,  and  publisher  of  the  New  England  Courant.  To  this 
journal  Benjamin,  though  but  a  lad,  had  contributed,  incognito,  several 
pieces  which  had  occasioned  remark,  and  perhaps  on  the  part  of  the 
elder  brother,  some  jealousy. 

"But  my  brother,"  says  Franklin,  "was  passionate,  and  had  often 
beaten  me,  which  I  took  extreamly  amiss:  and  thinking  my  appren- 
ticeship very  tedious,  I  was  continually  wishing  for  some  opportunity 
of  shortening  it,  which  at  length  ofifered  in  a  manner  unexpected."! 


BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN  209 

One  of  the  pieces  in  our  newspaper  on  some  political  point,  which 
I  have  now  forgotten,  gave  offense  to  the  Assembly.  He  was 
taken  up,  censur'd,  and  imprison'd  for  a  month,  by  the  speaker's 
warrant,  I  suppose,  because  he  would  not  discover  his  author.  I 
too  was  taken  up  and  examin'd  before  the  council;  but,  tho'  I  did 
not  give  them  any  satisfaction,  they  content'd  themselves  with 
admonishing  me,  and  dismissed  me,  considering  me,  perhaps,  as 
an  apprentice,  who  was  bound  to  keep  his  master's  secrets. 

During  my  brother's  confinement,  which  I  resented  a  good 
deal,  notwithstanding  our  private  differences,  I  had  the  manage- 
ment of  the  paper;  and  I  made  bold  to  give  our  rulers  some 
rubs  in  it,  which  my  brother  took  very  kindly,  while  others 
began  to  consider  me  in  an  unfavorable  light,  as  a  young  genius 
that  had  a  turn  for  libelling  and  satyr.  My  brother's  discharge 
was  accompany 'd  with  an  order  of  the  House  (a  very  odd  one), 
that  "James  Franklin  should  no  longer  print  the  paper  called  the 
Nerd)  England  C  our  ant  J  ^ 

There  was  a  consultation  held  in  our  printing-house  among  his 
friends,  what  he  should  do  in  this  case.  Some  proposed  to  evade 
the  order  by  changing  the  name  of  the  paper;  but  my  brother, 
seeing  inconveniences  in  that,  it  was  finally  concluded  on  as  a 
better  way,  to  let  it  be  printed  for  the  future  under  the  name  of 
Benjamin  Franklin;  and  to  avoid  the  censure  of  the  Assembly, 
that  might  fall  on  him  as  still  printing  it  by  his  apprentice,  the 
contrivance  was  that  my  old  indenture  should  be  return'd  to  me, 
with  a  full  discharge  on  the  back  of  it,  to  be  shown  on  occasion, 
but  to  secure  to  him  the  benefit  of  my  service,  I  was  to  sign  new 
indentures  for  the  remainder  of  the  term,  which  were  to  be  kept 
private.  A  very  flimsy  scheme  it  was;  however,  it  was  imme- 
diately executed,  and  the  paper  went  on  accordingly,  under  my 
name  for  several  months. 

At  length,  a  fresh  difference  arising  between  my  brother  and 
me,  I  took  upon  me  to  assert  my  freedom,  presuming  that  he 
would  not  venture  to  produce  the  new  indentures.  It  was  not 
14 


2IO  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

fair  in  me  to  take  this  advantage,  and  this  I  therefore  reckon 
one  of  the  first  errata  of  my  life;  but  the  unfairness  of  it  weighed 
little  with  me,  when  under  the  impressions  of  resentment  for  the 
blows  his  passion  too  often  urged  him  to  bestow  upon  me, 
though  he  was  otherwise  not  an  ill-natur'dman:  perhaps  I  was 
too  saucy  and  provoking. 

When  he  found  I  would  leave  him,  he  took  care  to  prevent  my 
getting  employment  in  any  other  printing-house  of  the  town,  by 
going  round  and  speaking  to  every  master,  who  accordingly  re- 
fus'd  to  give  me  work.  I  then  thought  of  going  to  New  York,  as 
the  nearest  place  where  there  was  a  printer;  and  I  was  rather 
inclin'd  to  leave  Boston  when  I  reflected  that  I  had  already  made 
myself  a  Httle  obnoxious  to  the  governing  party,  and,  from  the 
arbitrary  proceedings  of  the  Assembly  in  my  brother's  case,  it 
was  likely  I  might,  if  I  stay'd,  soon  bring  myself  into  scrapes; 
and  farther,  that  my  indiscrete  disputations  about  religion  be- 
gan to  make  me  pointed  at  with  horror  by  good  people  as  an  in- 
fidel or  atheist.  I  determin'd  on  the  point,  but  my  father  now 
siding  with  my  brother,  I  was  sensible  that,  if  I  attempted  to  go 
openly,  means  would  be  used  to  prevent  me.  My  friend  Collins, 
therefore,  undertook  to  manage  a  little  for  me.  He  agreed  with 
the  captain  of  a  New  York  sloop  for  my  passage,  under  the  no- 
tion of  my  being  a  young  acquaintance  of  his,  that  had  got  a 
naughty  girl  with  child,  whose  friends  would  compel  me  to  marry 
her,  and  therefore  I  could  not  appear  or  come  away  publicly. 
So  I  sold  some  of  my  books  to  raise  a  httle  money,  was  taken  on 
board  privately,  and  as  we  had  a  fair  wind,  in  three  days  I  found 
myself  in  New  York,  near  300  miles  from  home,  a  boy  of  but  1 7, 
without  the  least  recommendation  to,  or  knowledge  of  any  per- 
son in  the  place,  and  with  very  httle  money  in  my  pocket. 

My  inclinations  for  the  sea  were  by  this  time  worne  out,  or  I 
might  now  have  gratify'd  them.  But,  having  a  trade,  and  sup- 
posing myself  a  pretty  good  workman,  I  offer'd  my  service  to 
the  printer  in  the  place,  old  Mr.  WiUiam  Bradford,  who  had 


BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN  211 

been  the  first  printer  in  Pennsylvania,  but  removed  from  thence 
upon  the  quarrel  of  George  Keith.  He  could  give  me  no  employ- 
ment, having  little  to  do,  and  help  enough  already;  but  says  he, 
"My  son  at  Philadelphia  has  lately  lost  his  principal  hand, 
Aquila  Rose,  by  death;  if  you  go  thither,  I  beheve  he  may  employ 
you."  Philadelphia  was  a  hundred  miles  further;  I  set  out,  how- 
ever, in  a  boat  for  Amboy,  leaving  my  chest  and  things  to  follow 
me  round  by  sea. 

In  crossing  the  bay,  we  met  with  a  squall  that  tore  our  rotten 
sails  to  pieces,  prevented  our  getting  into  the  Kill,  and  drove  us 
upon  Long  Island.  In  our  way,  a  drunken  Dutchman,  who  was  a 
passenger  too,  fell  overboard;  when  he  was  sinking,  I  reached 
through  the  water  to  his  shock  pate,  and  drew  him  up,  so  that 
we  got  him  in  again.  His  ducking  sobered  him  a  little,  and  he 
went  to  sleep,  taking  first  out  of  his  pocket  a  book,  which  he  de- 
sir'd  I  would  dry  for  him.  It  proved  to  be  my  old  favorite  author, 
Bunyan's  Pilgrim's  Progress,  in  Dutch,  finely  printed  on  good 
paper,  with  copper  cuts,  a  dress  better  than  I  had  ever  seen  it 
wear  in  its  own  language.  I  have  since  found  that  it  has  been 
translated  into  most  of  the  languages  of  Europe,  and  suppose  it 
has  been  more  generally  read  than  any  other  book,  except  per- 
haps the  Bible.  Honest  John  was  the  first  that  I  know  of  who 
mix'd  narration  and  dialogue;  a  method  of  writing  very  engaging 
to  the  reader,  who  in  the  most  interesting  parts  finds  himself,  as 
it  were,  brought  into  the  company  and  present  at  the  discourse. 
De  Foe  in  his  Cruso,  his  Moll  Flanders,  Religious  Courtship, 
Family  Instructor,  and  other  pieces,  has  imitated  it  witk)&B.c- 
cess;  and  Richardson  has  done  the  same  in  his  Pamela,  etcirfT- 

When  we  drew  near  the  island,  we  found  it  was  at  ^sfdace 
where  there  could  be  no  landing,  there  being  a  great  surff  on  the 
stony  beach.  So  we  dropt  anchor,  and  swung  round  towards  the 
shore.  Some  people  came  down  to  the  water  edge  and  hallow'd 
to  us,  as  we  did  to  them;  but  the  wind  was  so  high,  and  the  surff 
so  loud,  that  we  could  not  hear  so  as  to  understand  each  other. 


212  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

There  were  canoes  on  the  shore,  and  we  made  signs,  and  hallow'd 
that  they  should  fetch  us;  but  they  either  did  not  understand 
us,  or  thought  it  impracticable,  so  they  went  away,  and  night 
coming  on,  we  had  no  remedy  but  to  wait  till  the  wind  should 
abate;  and,  in  the  mean  time,  the  boatman  and  I  concluded  to 
sleep,  if  we  could;  and  so  crowded  into  the  scuttle,  with  the 
Dutchman,  who  was  still  wet,  and  the  spray  beating  over  the 
head  of  our  boat,  leak'd  thro'  to  us,  so  that  we  were  soon  almost 
as  wet  as  he.  In  this  manner  we  lay  all  night,  with  very  Httle 
rest;  but,  the  wind  abating  the  next  day,  we  made  a  shift  to 
reach  Amboy  before  night,  having  been  thirty  hours  on  the 
water,  without  victuals,  or  any  drink  but  a  bottle  of  filthy  rum, 
and  the  water  we  sail'd  on  being  salt. 

In  the  evening  I  fotmd  myself  very  feverish,  and  went  into 
bed;  but,  having  read  somewhere  that  cold  water  drank  plenti- 
fully was  good  for  a  fever,  I  follow'd  the  prescription,  sweat 
plentiful  most  of  the  night,  my  fever  left  me,  and  in  the  morn- 
ing, crossing  the  ferry,  I  proceeded  on  my  journey  on  foot,  hav- 
ing fifty  miles  to  BurUngton,  where  I  was  told  I  should  find  boats 
that  would  carry  me  the  rest  of  the  way  to  Philadelphia. 

It  rained  very  hard  all  the  day;  I  was  thoroughly  soak'd,  and 
by  noon  a  good  deal  tired;  so  I  stopt  at  a  poor  inn,  where  I  staid 
all  night,  beginning  now  to  wish  that  I  had  never  left  home.  I 
cut  so  miserable  a  figure,  too,  that  I  found,  by  the  questions 
ask'd  me,  I  was  suspected  to  be  some  runaway  servant,  and  in 
danger  of  being  taken  up  on  that  suspicion.  However,  I  pro- 
ceeded the  next  day,  and  got  in  the  evening  to  an  inn,  within 
eight  or  ten  miles  of  BurUngton,  kept  by  one  Dr.  Brown.  He 
entered  into  conversation  with  me  while  I  took  some  refresh- 
ment, and,  finding  I  had  read  a  Httle,  became  very  sociable 
and  friendly.  Our  acquaintance  continued  as  long  as  he  liv'd. 
He  had  been,  I  imagine,  an  itinerant  doctor,  for  there  was  no 
town  in  England,  or  country  in  Europe,  of  which  he  could  not 
give  a  very  particular  account.    He  had  some  letters,  and  was 


BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN  213 

ingenious,  but  much  of  an  unbeliever,  and  wickedly  undertook, 
some  years  after,  to  travestie  the  Bible  in  doggrel  verse,  as  Cotton 
had  done  Virgil.  By  this  means  he  set  many  of  the  facts  in  a 
very  ridiculous  light,  and  might  have  hurt  weak  minds  if  his  work 
had  been  published;  but  it  never  was. 

At  his  house  I  lay  that  night,  and  the  next  morning  reach'd 
Burlington,  but  had  the  mortification  to  find  that  the  regular 
boats  were  gone  a  little  before  my  coming,  and  no  other  expected 
to  go  before  Tuesday,  this  being  Saturday;  wherefore  I  returned 
to  an  old  woman  in  the  town,  of  whom  I  had  bought  gingerbread 
to  eat  on  the  water,  and  ask'd  her  advice.  She  invited  me  to 
lodge  at  her  house  till  a  passage  by  water  should  offer;  and  being 
tired  with  my  foot  travelling,  I  accepted  the  invitation.  She 
understanding  I  was  a  printer,  would  have  had  me  stay  at  that 
town  and  follow  my  business,  being  ignorant  of  the  stock  neces- 
sary to  begin  with.  She  was  very  hospitable,  gave  me  a  dinner 
of  ox-cheek  with  great  good  will,  accepting  only  of  a  pot  of  ale  in 
return;  and  I  thought  myself  fixed  till  Tuesday  should  come. 
However,  walking  in  the  evening  by  the  side  of  the  river,  a  boat 
came  by,  which  I  found  was  going  towards  Philadelphia,  with 
several  people  in  her.  They  took  me  in,  and,  as  there  was  no 
wind,  we  row'd  all  the  way;  and  about  midnight,  not  having  yet 
seen  the  city,  some  of  the  company  were  confident  we  must  have 
passed  it,  and  would  row  no  farther;  the  others  knew  not  where 
we  were;  so  we  put  toward  tHe  shore,  got  into  a  creek,  landed 
near  an  old  fence,  with  the  rails  of  which  we  made  a  fire,  the 
night  being  cold,  in  October,  and  there  we  remained  till  daylight. 
Then  one  of  the  company  knew  the  place  to  be  Cooper's  Creek, 
a  little  above  Philadelphia,  which  we  saw  as  soon  as  we  got  out 
of  the  creek,  and  arriv'd  there  about  eight  or  nine  o'clock  on  the 
Sunday  morning,  and  landed  at  the  Market-street  wharf. 

I  have  been  the  more  particular  in  this  description  of  my  jour- 
ney, and  shall  be  so  of  my  first  entry  into  that  city,  that  you 
may  in  your  mind  compare  such  unHkely  beginnings  with  the 


214  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

figure  I  have  since  made  there.  I  was  in  my  working  dress,  my 
best  clothes  being  to  come  round  by  sea.  I  was  dirty  from  my 
journey;  my  pockets  were  stuff 'd  out  with  shirts  and  stockings, 
and  I  knew  no  soul  nor  where  to  look  for  lodging.  I  was  fatigued 
with  travelling,  rowing,  and  want  of  rest,  I  was  very  hungry;  and 
my  whole  stock  of  cash  consisted  of  a  Dutch  dollar,  and  about  a 
shilling  in  copper.  The  latter  I  gave  the  people  of  the  boat  for 
my  passage,  who  at  first  refus'd  it,  on  account  of  my  rowing; 
but  I  insisted  on  their  taking  it.  A  man  being  sometimes  more 
generous  when  he  has  but  a  little  money  than  when  he  has  plenty, 
perhaps  thro'  fear  of  being  thought  to  have  but  little. 

Then  I  walked  up  the  street,  gazing  about  till  near  the  market- 
house  I  met  a  boy  with  bread.  I  had  made  many  a  meal  on 
bread,  and,  inquiring  where  he  got  it,  I  went  immediately  to  the 
baker's  he  directed  me  to,  in  Second-street,  and  ask'd  for  bisket, 
intending  such  as  we  had  in  Boston;  but  they,  it  seems,  were  not 
made  in  Philadelphia.  Then  I  asked  for  a  three-penny  loaf,  and 
was  told  they  had  none  such.  So  not  considering  or  knowing  the 
difference  of  money,  and  the  greater  cheapness  nor  the  names  of 
his  bread,  I  bad  him  give  me  three-penny  worth  of  any  sort.  He 
gave  me,  accordingly,  three  great  puffy  rolls.  I  was  surpriz'd  at 
the  quantity,  but  took  it,  and,  having  no  room  in  my  pockets, 
walk'd  off  with  a  roll  under  each  arm,  and  eating  the  other. 
Thus  I  went  up  Market-street  as  far  as  Fourth-street,  passing  by 
the  door  of  Mr.  Read,  my  future  wife's  father;  when  she, 
standing  at  the  door,  saw  me,  and  thought  I  made,  as  I  certainly 
did,  a  most  awkward,  ridiculous  appearance.  Then  I  turned  and 
went  down  Chestnut-street  and  part  of  Walnut-street,  eating 
my  roU  all  the  way,  and,  coming  round,  found  myself  again 
at  Market-street  wharf,  near  the  boat  I  came  in,  to  which 
I  went  for  a  draught  df  the  river  water;  and,  being  filled  with 
one  of  my  rolls,  gave  the  other  two  to  a  woman  and  her  child 
that  came  down  the  river  in  the  boat  with  us,  and  were  waiting 
to  go  farther. 


BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN  215 

Thus  refreshed,  I  walked  again  up  the  street,  which  by  this 
time  had  many  clean-dressed  people  in  it,  who  were  all  walking 
the  same  way.  I  joined  them,  and  thereby  was  led  into  the  great 
meeting-house  of  the  Quakers  near  the  market.  I  sat  down 
among  them,  and,  after  looking  round  awhile  and  hearing  noth- 
ing said,  being  very  drowsy  thro',  labor  and  want  of  rest  the  pre- 
ceding night,  I  fell  fast  asleep,  and  continued  so  till  the  meeting 
broke  up,  when  one  was  kind  enough  to  rouse  me.  This  was, 
therefore,  the  first  house  I  was  in,  or  slept  in,  in  Philadelphia. 

Walking  down  again  toward  the  river,  and,  looking  in  the 
faces  of  people,  I  met  a  young  Quaker  man,  whose  countenance 
I  Uk'd,  and,  accosting  him,  requested  he  would  tell  me  where 
a  stranger  could  get  lodging.  We  were  then  near  the  sign  of 
the  Three  Mariners.  "Here,"  says  he,  "is  one  place  that  enter- 
tains strangers,  but  it  is  not  a  reputable  house;  if  thee  wilt  walk 
with  me,  I'll  show  thee  a  better."  He  brought  me  to  the  Crooked 
Billet  in  Water-street.  Here  I  got  a  dinner;  and,  while  I  was 
eating  it,  several  sly  questions  were  asked  me,  as  it  seemed  to 
be  suspected  from  my  youth  and  appearance,  that  I  might  be 
some  runaway. 

After  dinner,  my  sleepiness  return'd,  and  being  shown  to  a 
bed,  I  lay  down  without  undressing,  and  slept  till  six  in  the  even- 
ing, was  call'd  to  supper,  went  to  bed  again  very  early,  and  slept 
soundly  till  next  morning.  Then  I  made  myself  as  tidy  as  I 
could,  and  went  to  Andrew  Bradford  the  printer's.  I  found  in  the 
shop  the  old  man  his  father,  whom  I  had  seen  at  New  York,  and 
who,  travelling  on  horseback,  had  got  to  Philadelphia  before 
me.  He  introduc'd  me  to  his  son,  who  receiv'd  me  civilly,  gave 
me  a  breakfast,  but  told  me  he  did  not  at  present  want  a  hand, 
being  lately  suppli'd  with  one;  but  there  was  another  printer  in 
town,  lately  set  up,  one  Keimer,  who,  perhaps,  might  employ 
me;  if  not,  I  should  be  welcome  to  lodge  at  his  house,  and  he 
would  give  me  a  little  work  to  do  now  and  then  till  fuller  business 
should  offer. 


2i6  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY 

1785-1859 

EARLY  HARDSHIPS 

[From  The  Confessions  of  an  English  Opium  Eater,  the  text  adapted 
from  that  of  the  original  edition  in  the  London  Magazine,  1821. 

The  body  of  this  selection  (from  Part  I — "Preliminary  Confes- 
sions") tells  of  youthful  experiences  resulting  in  physical  weakness  and 
disease  which  in  their  turn  brought  on  the  opium  habit.  The  last  sec- 
tion (from  Part  II — "The  Pains  of  Opium")  brings  back  in  an  opium 
dream  images  of  the  early  days.] 


My  father  died,  when  I  was  about  seven  years  old,  and  left  me  to 
the  care  of  four  guardians.  I  was  sent  to  various  schools,  great 
and  small;  and  was  very  early  distinguished  for  my  classical  at- 
tainments, especially  for  my  knowledge  of  Greek.  At  thirteen, 
I  wrote  Greek  with  ease;  and  at  fifteen  my  command  of  that 
language  was  so  great,  that  I  not  only  composed  Greek  verses 
in  lyric  metres,  but  could  converse  in  Greek  fluently  and  with- 
out embarrassment^an  accomplishment  which  I  have  not 
since  met  with  in  any  scholar  of  my  times,  and  which,  in  my  case, 
was  owing  to  the  practice  of  daily  reading  off  the  newspapers  into 
the  best  Greek  I  could  furnish  extempore:  for  the  necessity  of 
ransacking  my  memory  and  invention  for  all  sorts  and  com- 
binations of  periphrastic  expressions  as  equivalents  for  modern 
ideas,  images,  relations  of  things,  &c.  gave  me  a  compass  of 
diction  which  would  never  have  been  called  out  by  a  dull  trans- 
lation of  moral  essays,  &c.  "That  boy,"  said  one  of  my  masters, 
pointing  the  attention  of  a  stranger  to  me,  *'that  boy  could 
harangue  an  Athenian  mob,  better  than  you  and  I  could 
address  an  English  one." 

He  who  honoured  me  with  this  eulogy,  was  a  scholar,  "and 
a  ripe  and  a  good  one":  and  of  all  my  tutors,  was  the  only 
one  whom  I  loved  or  reverenced.    Unfortunately  for  me  (and,  as 


/ 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY  217 

I  afterwards  learned,  to  this  worthy  man's  great  indignation),  I 
was  transferred  to  the  care,  first  of  a  blockhead,  who  was  in  a 
perpetual  panic,  lest  I  should  expose  his  ignorance;  and  finally, 
to  that  of  a  respectable  scholar,  at  the  head  of  a  great  school 
on  an  ancient  foundation.  This  man  had  been  appointed  to  his 
situation  by  [Brasenose]  College,  Oxford;  and  was  a  sound,  well- 
built  scholar,  but  (like  most  men,  whom  I  have  known  from  that 
college)  coarse,  clumsy,  and  inelegant.  A  miserable  contrast  he 
presented,  in  my  eyes,  to  the  Etonian  brilliancy  of  my  favourite 
master:  and  besides,  he  could  not  disguise  from  my  hourly  no- 
tice, the  poverty  and  meagreness  of  his  understanding.  It  is  a 
bad  thing  for  a  boy  to  be,  and  to  know  himself,  far  beyond  his 
tutors,  whether  in  knowledge  or  in  power  of  mind.  This  was  the 
case,  so  far  as  regarded  knowledge  at  least,  not  with  myself  onlyi 
for  the  two  boys,  who  jointly  with  myself  composed  the  first 
form,  were  better  Grecians  than  the  head-master,  though  not 
more  elegant  scholars,  nor  at  all  more  accustomed  to  sacrifice  to 
the  graces.  When  I  first  entered,  I  remember  that  we  read 
Sophocles;  and  it  was  a  constant  matter  of  triumph  to  us,  the 
learned  triumvirate  of  the  first  form,  to  see  our '  Archididascalus' 
(as  he  loved  to  be  called)  conning  our  lessons  before  we  went  up, 
and  laying  a  regular  train,  with  lexicon  and  grammar,  for  blow- 
ing up  and  blasting  (as  it  were)  any  difficulties  he  found  in  the 
choruses;  whilst  we  never  condescended  to  open  our  books,  until 
the  moment  of  going  up,  and  were  generally  employed  in  writing 
epigrams  upon  his  wig,  or  some  such  important  matter. 

My  two  class-fellows  were  poor,  and  dependent  for  their  future 
prospects  at  the  university,  on  the  recommendation  of  the  head- 
master: but  I,  who  had  a  small  patrimonial  property,  the  income 
of  which  was  sufficient  to  support  me  at  college,  wished  to  be  sent 
thither  immediately.  I  made  earnest  representations  on  the  sub- 
ject to  my  guardians,  but  all  to  no  purpose.  One,  who  was  more 
reasonable,  and  had  more  knowledge  of  the  world  than  the  rest, 
Uved  at  a  distance:  two  of  the  other  three  resigned  all  their 


2i8  PROSE  NARRATIVES  . 

authority  into  the  hands  of  the  fourth ;  and  this  fourth  with  whom 
I  had  to  negotiate,  was  a  worthy  man,  in  his  way,  but  haughty, 
obstinate,  and  intolerant  of  all  opposition  to  his  will.  After  a 
certain  number  of  letters  and  personal  interviews,  I  found  that 
I  had  nothing  to  hope  for,  not  even  a  compromise  of  the  matter, 
from  my  guardian:  unconditional  submission  was  what  he  de- 
manded: and  I  prepared  myself,  therefore,  for  other  measures. 
Summer  was  now  coming  on  with  hasty  steps,  and  my  seven- 
teenth birthday  was  fast  approaching;  after  which  day  I  had 
sworn  within  myself,  that  I  would  no  longer  be  numbered 
amongst  schoolboys.  Money  being  what  I  chiefly  wanted,  I 
wrote  to  a  woman  of  high  rank,  who,  though  young  herself,  had 
known  me  from  a  child,  and  had  latterly  treated  me  with  great 
distinction,  requesting  that  she  would  'lend'  me  five  guineas. 
For  upwards  of  a  week  no  answer  came;  and  I  was  beginning  to 
despond,  when,  at  length,  a  servant  put  into  my  hands  a  double 
letter,  with  a  coronet  on  the  seal.  The  letter  was  kind  and  oblig- 
ing: the  fair  writer  was  on  the  sea-coast,  and  in  that  way  the 
delay  had  arisen :  she  enclosed  double  of  what  I  had  asked,  and 
good-naturedly  hinted,  that  if  I  shovddnever  repay  her,  it  would 
not  absolutely  ruin  her.  Now  then,  I  was  prepared  for  my 
scheme:  ten  guineas,  added  to  about  two  which  I  had  remaining 
from  my  pocket  money,  seemed  to  me  sufficient  for  an  indefinite 
length  of  time:  and  at  that  happy  age,  if  no  definite  boundary 
can  be  assigned  to  one's  power,  the  spirit  of  hope  and  pleasure 
makes  it  virtually  infinite. 

It  is  a  just  remark  of  Dr.  Johnson's  (and  what  cannot  often  be 
said  of  his  remarks,  it  is  a  very  feeling  one),  that  we  never  do 
anything  consciously  for  the  last  time  (of  things,  that  is,  which 
we  have  long  been  in  the  habit  of  doing)  without  sadness  of 
heart.  This  truth  I  felt  deeply,  when  I  came  to  leave  [Man- 
chester], a  place  which  I  did  not  love,  and  where  I  had  not  been 
happy.  On  the  evening  before  I  left  [Manchester]  for  ever,  I 
grieved  when  the  ancient  and  lofty  schoolroom  resounded  with 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY  219 

the  evening  service,  performed  for  the  last  time  in  my  hearing; 
and  at  night,  when  the  muster-roll  of  names  was  called  over,  and 
mine  (as  usual)  was  called  first,  I  stepped  forward,  and,  passing 
the  head-master,  who  was  standing  by,  I  bowed  to  him,  and 
looked  earnestly  in  his  face,  thinking  to  myself,  'He  is  old  and 
infirm,  and  in  this  world  I  shall  not  see  him  again.'  I  was  right: 
I  never  did  see  him  again,  nor  ever  shall.  He  looked  at  me  com- 
placently, smiled  goodnaturedly,  returned  my  salutation  (or 
rather,  my  valediction),  and  we  parted  (though  he  knew  it  not) 
for  ever.  I  could  not  reverence  him  intellectually:  but  he  had 
been  uniformly  kind  to  me,  and  had  allowed  me  many  indul- 
gencies:  and  I  grieved  at  the  thought  of  the  mortification  I 
should  inflict  upon  him. 

The  morning  came,  which  was  to  launch  me  into  the  world, 
and  from  which  my  whole  succeeding  life  has,  in  many  important 
points,  taken  its  colouring.  I  lodged  in  the  head-master's  house, 
and  had  been  allowed,  from  my  first  entrance,  the  indulgence  of  a 
private  room,  which  I  used  both  as  a  sleeping  room  and  as  a 
study.  At  half  after  three  I  rose,  and  gazed  with  deep  emotion 
at  the  ancient  towers  of  [the  collegiate  church],  'drest  in  earliest 
light,'  and  beginning  to  crimson  with  the  radiant  lustre  of  a 
cloudless  July  morning.  I  was  firm  and  immovable  in  my 
purpose:  but  yet  agitated  by  anticipation  of  uncertain  danger 
and  troubles;  and,  if  I  could  have  foreseen  the  hurricane,  and 
perfect  hail-storm  of  affliction  which  soon  fell  upon  me,  well 
might  I  have  been  agitated.  To  this  agitation  the  deep  peace 
of  the  morning  presented  an  affecting  contrast,  and  in  some 
degree  a  medicine.  The  silence  was  more  profound  than  that  of 
midnight:  and  to  me  the  silence  of  a  summer  morning  is  more 
touching  than  all  other  silence,  because,  the  light  being  broad 
and  strong,  as  that  of  noon-day  at  other  seasons  of  the  year,  it 
seems  to  differ  from  perfect  day,  chiefly  because  man  is  not  yet 
abroad;  and  thus,  the  peace  of  nature,  and  of  the  innocent 
creatures  of  God,  seems  to  be  secure  and  deep,  only  so  long  as 


220  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

the  presence  of  man,  and  his  restless  and  unquiet  spirit,  are  not 
there  to  trouble  its  sanctity. 

I  dressed  myself,  took  my  hat  and  gloves,  and  lingered  a 
Uttle  in  the  room.  For  the  last  year  and  a  half  this  room  had 
been  my  'pensive  citadel':  here  I  had  read  and  studied  through 
all  the  hours  of  night:  and,  though  true  it  was,  that  for  the  latter 
part  of  this  time  I,  who  was  framed  for  love  and  gentle  affections, 
had  lost  my  gaiety  and  happiness,  during  the  strife  and  fever  of 
contention  with  my  guardian;  yet,  on  the  other  hand,  as  a  boy, 
so  passionately  fond  of  books,  and  dedicated  to  intellectual  pur- 
suits, I  could  not  fail  to  have  enjoyed  many  happy  hours  in  the 
midst  of  general  dejection.  I  wept  as  I  looked  round  on  the 
chair,  hearth,  writing-table,  and  other  familiar  objects,  knowing 
too  certainly,  that  I  looked  upon  them  for  the  last  time.  Whilst 
I  write  this,  it  is  eighteen  years  ago;  and  yet,  at  this  moment,  I 
see  distinctly  as  if  it  were  yesterday,  the  lineaments  and  expres- 
sion of  the  object  on  which  I  fixed  my  parting  gaze:  it  was  a  pic- 
ture of  the  lovely ,  which  hung  over  the  mantelpiece;  the 

eyes  and  mouth  of  which  were  so  beautiful,  and  the  whole  coun- 
tenance so  radiant  with  benignity,  and  divine  tranquiUity,  that  I 
had  a  thousand  times  laid  down  my  pen,  or  my  book,  to  gather 
consolation  from  it,  as  a  devotee  from  his  patron  saint.  Whilst  I 
was  yet  gazing  upon  it,  the  deep  tones  of  [Manchester]  clock  pro- 
claimed that  it  was  four  o'clock.  I  went  up  to  the  picture,  kissed 
it,  and  then  gently  walked  out  and  closed  the  door  for  ever! 

So  blended  and  intertwisted  in  this  life  are  occasions  of  laugh- 
ter and  of  tears,  that  I  cannot  yet  recall,  without  smiling,  an 
incident  which  occurred  at  that  time,  and  which  had  nearly 
put  a  stop  to  the  immediate  execution  of  my  plan.  I  had  a 
trunk  of  immense  weight;  for,  besides  my  clothes,  it  contained 
nearly  all  my  library.  The  difficulty  was  to  get  this  removed  to 
a  carrier's:  my  room  was  at  an  aerial  elevation  in  the  house,  and 
(what  was  worse)  the  staircase,  which  communicated  with  this 
angle  of  the  building,  was  accessible  only  by  a  gallery,  which 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY  221 

passed  the  head-master's  chamber  door.  I  was  a  favourite  with 
all  the  servants;  and,  knowing  that  any  of  them  would  screen 
me,  and  act  confidentially,  I  communicated  my  embarrassment 
to  a  groom  of  the  head-master's.  The  groom  swore  he  would 
do  anything  I  wished;  and,  when  the  time  arrived,  went  up 
stairs  to  bring  the  trunk  down.  This  I  feared  was  beyond  the 
strength  of  any  one  man:  however,  the  groom  was  a  man — 

Of  Atlantean  shoulders,  fit  to  bear 
The  weight  of  mightiest  monarchies; 

and  had  a  back  as  spacious  as  Salisbury  plain.  Accordingly  he 
persisted  in  bringing  down  the  trunk  alone,  whilst  I  stood  waiting 
at  the  foot  of  the  last  flight,  in  anxiety  for  the  event.  For  some 
time  I  heard  him  descending  with  slow  and  firm  steps:  but,  un- 
fortunately, from  his  trepidation,  as  he  drew  near  the  dangerous 
quarter,  within  a  few  steps  of  the  gallery,  his  foot  slipped;  and 
the  mighty  burden  falling  from  his  shoulders,  gained  such  in- 
crease of  impetus  at  each  step  of  the  descent,  that,  on  reaching 
the  bottom,  it  trundled,  or  rather  leaped,  right  across,  with  the 
noise  of  twenty  devils,  against  the  very  bed-room  door  of  the 
archididascalus. 

My  first  thought  was,  that  all  was  lost;  and  that  my  only 
chance  for  executing  a  retreat  was  to  sacrifice  my  baggage. 
However,  on  reflection,  I  determined  to  abide  the  issue.  The 
groom  was  in  the  utmost  alarm,  both  on  his  own  account  and 
on  mine:  but,  in  spite  of  this,  so  irresistibly  had  the  sense  of 
the  ludicrous,  in  this  unhappy  contretems,  taken  possession  of 
his  fancy,  that  he  sang  out  a  long,  loud,  and  canorous  peal 
of  laughter,  that  might  have  wakened  the  Seven  Sleepers.  At 
the  sound  of  this  resonant  merriment,  within  the  very  ears  of 
insulted  authority,  I  could  not  myself  forbear  joining  in  it:  sub- 
dued to  this,  not  so  much  by  the  unhappy  etourderie  of  the  trunk, 
as  by  the  effect  it  had  upon  the  groom.  We  both  expected,  as  a 
matter  of  course,  that  Dr.  [Lawson]  would  sally  out  of  his  room: 


222  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

for,  in  general,  if  but  a  mouse  stirred,  he  sprang  out  like  a  mastiff 
from  his  kennel.  Strange  to  say,  however,  on  this  occasion,  when 
the  noise  of  laughter  had  ceased,  no  sound,  or  rustUng  even,  was 
to  be  heard  in  the  bedroom.  Dr.  [Law^on].  had  a  painful  com- 
plaint, which,  sometimes  keeping  him  awake,  made  his  sleep, 
perhaps,  when  it  did  come,  the  deeper.  Gathering  courage  from 
the  silence,  the  groom  hoisted  his  burden  again,  and  accomplished 
the  remainder  of  his  descent  without  accident.  I  waited  until  I 
saw  the  trunk  placed  on  a  wheelbarrow,  and  on  its  road  to  the 
carrier's:  then,  *  with  Providence  my  guide,'  I  set  off  on  foot, — 
carrying  a  small  parcel,  with  some  articles  of  dress,  under  my 
arm;  a  favourite  English  poet  in  one  pocket;  and  a  small  i2mo 
volume,  containing  about  nine  plays  of  Euripides,  in  the  other.  ^ 

II 

It  had  been  my  intention  originally  to  j^roceed  to  Westmore- 
land, both  from  the  love  I  bore  to  that  country,  an^on  other  per- 
sonal accounts.  Accident,  however,  gave  a  dMerent  direction  to 
my  wanderings,  and  I  bent  my  steps  towards  North  Wales. 

After  wandering  about  for  some  time  in  Denbighshire,  Merion- 
ethshire, and  Carnarvonshire,  I  took  lodgings  in  a  small  neat 
house  in  B[angor].  Here  I  might  have  stayed  with  great  com- 
fort for  many  weeks;  for,  provisions,  were  cheap  at  B[angor], 
from  the  scarcity  of  other  markets  for  the  surplus  produce  of  a 
wide  agricultural  district. 

Now,  my  landlady  had  been  a  lady's  maid,  or  a  nurse,  in  the 
family  of  the  Bishop  of  [Bangor];  and  had  but  lately  married 
away  and  ' settled'  (as  such  people  express  it)  for  life.  In  a  little 
town  like  B[angor],  merely  to  have  lived  in  the  bishop's  family, 
conferred  some  distinction:  and  my  good  landlady  had  rather 
more  than  her  share  of  the  pride  I  have  noticed  on  that  score. 
What '  my  lord '  said,  and  what '  my  lord '  did,  how  useful  he  was 
in  parliament,  and  how  indispensable  at  Oxford,  formed  the 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY  223 

daily  burden  of  her  talk.  All  this  I  bore  very  well:  for  I  was  too 
good-natured  to  laugh  in  anybody's  face,  and  I  could  make  an 
ample  allowance  for  the  garrulity  of  an  old  servant.  Of  neces- 
sity, however,  I  must  have  appeared  in  her  eyes  very  inade- 
quately impressed  with  the  bishop's  importance:  and,  perhaps, 
to  punish  me  for  my  indifference,  or  possibly  by  accident,  she  one 
day  repeated  to  me  a  conversation  in  which  I  was  indirectly  a 
party  concerned.  She  had  been  to  the  palace  to  pay  her  re- 
spects to  the  family;  and,  dinner  being  over,  was  summoned  into 
the  dining-room.  In  giving  an  account  of  her  household  econ- 
omy, she  happened  to  mention,  that  she  had  let  her  apartments. 
Thereupon  the  good  bishop  (it  seemed)  had  taken  occasion  to 
caution  her  as  to  her  selection  of  inmates:  'for,'  said  he,  'you 
must  recollect,  Betty,  that  this  place  is  in  the  high  road  to  the 
Head;  so  that  multitudes  of  Irish  swindlers,  running  away  from 
their  debts  into  England — and  of  English  swindlers,  running 
away  from  their  debts  to  the  Isle  of  Man,  are  likely  to  take  this 
place  in  their  route.' 

This  advice  was  certainly  not  without  reasonable  grounds: 
but  rather  fitted  to  be  stored  up  for  Mrs.  Betty's  private 
meditations,  than  specially  reported  to  me.  What  followed, 
however,  was  somewhat  worse: — 'Oh,  my  lord,'  answered  my 
landlady  (according  to  her  own  representation  of  the  matter), 
'I  really  don't  think  this  young  gentleman  is  a  swindler; 
because — ':  'You  don't  think  me  a  swindler?'  said  I,  inter- 
rupting her,  in  a  tumult  of  indignation:  'for  the  future  I  shall 
spare  you  the  trouble  of  thinking  about  it.'  And  without  delay 
I  prepared  for  my  departure.  Some  concessions  the  good  woman 
seemed  disposed  to  make:  but  a  harsh  and  contemptuous 
expression,  which  I  fear  that  I  applied  to  the  learned  dignitary 
himself,  roused  her  indignation  in  turn:  and  reconciliation 
then  became  impossible.  I  was,  indeed,  greatly  irritated  at  the 
bishop's  having  suggested  any  grounds  of  suspicion,  however 
remotely,  against  a  person  whom  he  had  never  seen:    and  I 


224  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

thought  of  letting  him  know  my  mind  in  Greek:  which,  at  the 
same  time  that  it  would  furnish  some  presumption  that  I  was 
no  swindler,  would  also  (I  hoped)  compel  the  bishop  to  reply 
in  the  same  language;  in  which  case,  I  doubted  not  to  make 
it  appear,  that  if  I  was  not  so  rich  as  his  lordship,  I  was  a  far 
better  Grecian.  Calmer  thoughts,  however,  drove  this  boyish 
design  out  of  my  mind:  for  I  considered,  that  the  bishop  was 
in  the  right  to  counsel  an  old  servant;  that  he  could  not 
have  designed  that  his  advice  should  be  reported  to  me;  and 
that  the  same  coarseness  of  mind,  which  had  led  Mrs.  Betty 
to  repeat  the  advice  at  all,  might  have  coloured  it  in  a  way 
more  agreeable  to  her  own  style  of  thinking,  than  to  the 
actual  expressions  of  the  worthy  bishop. 

I  left  the  lodgings  the  very  same  hour;  and  this  turned  out  a 
very  unfortunate  occurrence  for  me :  because,  Hving  henceforward 
at  inns,  I  was  drained  of  my  money  very  rapidly.  In  a  fortnight 
I  was  reduced  to  short  allowance;  that  is,  I  could  allow  myself 
only  one  meal  a-day.  From  the  keen  appetite  produced  by  con- 
stant exercise,  and  moimtain  air,  acting  on  a  youthful  stomach, 
I  soon  began  to  suffer  greatly  on  this  slender  regimen;  for  the 
single  meal,  which  I  could  venture  to  order,  was  coffee  or  tea. 
Even  this,  however,  was  at  length  withdrawn:  and  afterwards, 
so  long  as  I  remained  in  Wales,  I  subsisted  either  on  blackberries, 
hips,  haws,  &c.  or  on  the  casual  hospitalities  which  I  now  and 
then  received,  in  return  for  such  Uttle  services  as  I  had  an  oppor- 
tunity of  rendering.  Sometimes  I  wrote  letters  of  business  for 
cottagers,  who  happened  to  have  relatives  in  Liverpool,  or  in 
London:  more  often  I  wrote  love-letters  to  their  sweethearts  for 
young  women  who  had  lived  as  servants  at  Shrewsbury,  or  other 
towns  on  the  English  border. 

On  all  such  occasions  I  gave  great  satisfaction  to  my  himible 
friends,  and  was  generally  treated  with  hospitality:  and  once, 
in  particular,  near  the  village  of  Llan-y-styndw  (or  some 
such  name),  in  a  sequestered  part  of  Merionethshire,  I  was 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY  225 

entertained  for  upwards  of  three  days  by  a  family  of  young 
people,  with  an  affectionate  and  fraternal  kindness  that  left  an 
impression  upon  my  heart  not  yet  impaired.  The  family  con- 
sisted, at  that  time,  of  four  sisters,  and  three  brothers,  all  grown 
up,  and  all  remarkable  for  elegance  and  delicacy  of  manners.  So 
much  beauty,  and  so  much  native  good-breeding  and  refinement, 
I  do  not  remember  to  have  seen  before  or  since  in  any  cottage, 
except  once  or  twice  in  Westmoreland  and  Devonshire.  They 
spoke  EngUsh:  an  accomphshment  not  often  met  with  in  so  many 
members  of  one  family,  especially  in  villages  remote  from  the 
high-road.  Here  I  wrote,  on  my  first  introduction,  a  letter  about 
prize-money,  for  one  of  the  brothers,  who  had  served  on  board  an 
English  man  of  war;  and  more  privately,  two  love-letters  for 
two  of  the  sisters.  They  were  both  interesting  looking  girls,  and 
one  of  uncommon  loveliness.  In  the  midst  of  their  confusion  and 
blushes,  whilst  dictating,  or  rather  giving  me  general  instruc- 
tions, it  did  not  require  any  great  penetration  to  discover  that 
what  they  wished  was,  that  their  fetters  should  be  as  kind  as 
was  consistent  with  proper  nia>idenly  pride.  I  contrived  so  to 
temper  my  expressions,  as  to  reconcile  the  gratification  of  both 
feelings:  and  they  were  as  much  pleased  with  the  way  in  which  I 
had  expressed  their  thoughts,  as  (in  their  simpHcity)  they  were 
astonished  at  my  having  so  readily  discovered  them. 

The  reception  one  meets  with  from  the  women  of  a  family, 
generally  determines  the  tenor  of  one's  whole  entertainment. 
In  this  case,  I  had  discharged  my  confidential  duties  as  secre- 
tary, so  much  to  the  general  satisfaction,  perhaps  also  amusing 
them  with  my  conversation,  that  I  was  pressed  to  stay  with  a 
cordiality  which  I  had  little  inclination  to  resist.  I  slept  with 
the  brothers,  the  only  unoccupied  bed  standing  in  the  apartment 
of  the  young  women:  but  in  all  other  points  they  treated  me  with 
a  respect  not  usually  paid  to  purses  as  light  as  mine;  as  if  my 
scholarship  were  sufficient  evidence  that  I  was  of  "gentle  blood.'* 
Thus  I  Hved  with  them  for  three  days,  and  great  part  of  a  fourth: 
IS 


226  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

and,  from  the  undiminished  kindness  which  they  continued  to 
show  me,  I  beHeve  I  might  have  staid  with  them  up  to  this  time, 
if  their  power  had  corresponded  with  their  wishes.  On  the  last 
morning,  however,  I  perceived  upon  their  countenances,  as  they 
sate  at  breakfast,  the  expression  of  some  unpleasant  communica- 
tion which  was  at  hand;  and  soon  after  one  of  the  brothers  ex- 
plained to  me  that  their  parents  had  gone,  the  day  before  my 
arrival,  to  an  annual  meeting  of  Methodists,  held  at  Carnarvon, 
and  were  that  day  expected  to  return;  "and  if  they  should  not 
be  so  civil  as  they  ought  to  be,"  he  begged,  on  the  part  of  all  the 
young  people,  that  I  would  not  take  it  amiss. 

The  parents  returned,  with  churlish  faces,  and  ^'Dym 
Sassenach"  {no  English),  in  answer  to  all  my  addresses.  I  saw 
how  matters  stood;  and  so,  taking  an  affectionate  leave  of  my 
kind  and  interesting  young  hosts,  I  went  my  way.  For,  though 
they  spoke  warmly  to  their  parents  in  my  behalf,  and  often 
excused  the  manner  of  the  old  people,  by  saying,  that  it  was 
"only  their  way,"  yet  I  easily  understood  that  my  talent  for 
writing  love-letters  would  do  as  Uttle  to  recommend  me  with 
two  grave  sexagenarian  Welsh  Methodists,  as  my  Greek 
Sapphics  or  Alcaics:  and  what  had  been  hospitality  when 
offered  to  me  with  the  gracious  courtesy  of  my  young  friends, 
would  become  charity,  when  connected  with  the  harsh  demeanour 
of  these  old  people.  Certainly,  Mr.  Shelley  is  right  in  his 
notions  about  old  age:  unless  powerfully  counteracted  by  all 
sorts  of  opposite  agencies,  it  is  a  miserable  corrupter  and 
blighter  to  the  genial  charities  of  the  human  heart. 

Ill 

Soon  after  this,  I  contrived,  by  means  which  I  must  omit  for 
want  of  room,  to  transfer  myself  to  London.  And  now  began  the 
latter  and  fiercer  stage  of  my  long  sufferings;  without  using  a 
disproportionate  expression,  I  might  say,  of  my  agony.  For  I 
now  suffered,  for  upwards  of  sixteen  weeks,  the  physical  anguish 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY  227 

of  hunger  in  various  degrees  of  intensity;  but  as  bitter,  perhaps, 
as  ever  any  human  being  can  have  suffered  who  has  survived  it. 
I  would  not  needlessly  harass  my  reader's  feelings,  by  a  detail  of 
all  that  I  endured:  for  extremities  such  as  these,  under  any  cir- 
cumstances of  heaviest  misconduct  or  guilt,  cannot  be  contem- 
plated, even  in  description,  without  a  rueful  pity  that  is  painful 
to  the  natural  goodness  of  the  human  heart.  Let  it  suffice,  at 
least  on  this  occasion,  to  say,  that  a  few  fragments  of  bread  from 
the  breakfast-table  of  one  individual  (who  supposed  me  to  be 
ill,  but  did  not  know  of  my  being  in  utter  want),  and  these  at 
uncertain  intervals,  constituted  my  whole  support.  During  the 
former  part  of  my  sufferings  (that  is,  generally  in  Wales,  and 
always  for  the  first  two  months  in  London)  I  was  tiouseless,jand 
very  seldom  slept  under  a  roof.  To  this  constant  exposure  to  the 
open  air  I  ascribe  it  mainly,  that  I  did  not  sink  under  my  tor- 
ments. Latterly,  however,  when  colder  and  more  inclement 
weather  came  on,  and  when,  from  the  length,  of* my  sufferings,  I 
had  begun  to  sink  into  a  mpre  languishing  condition,  it  was,  no 
doubt,  fortunate  for  me,  that  the  same  person  to  whose  breakfast- 
table  I  had  access,  allowed  me  to  sleep  in  a  large  unoccupied 
house,  of  which  he  was  tenant. 

Unoccupied,  I  call  it,  for  there  was  no  household  or  estabhsh- 
ment  in  it;  nor  any  furniture,  indeed,  except  a  table,  and  a  few 
chairs.  But  I  found,  on  taking  possession  of  my  new  quarters, 
that  the  house  already  contained  one  single  inmate,  a  poor 
friendless  child,  apparently  ten  years  old;  but  she  seemed 
hunger-bitten;  and  sufferings  of  that  sort  often  make  children 
look  older  than  they  are.  From  this  forlorn  child  I  learned, 
that  she  had  slept  and  lived  there  alone,  for  some  time  before  I 
came:  and  great  joy  the  poor  creature  expressed,  when  she  found 
that  I  was,  in  future,  to  be  her  companion  through  the  hours  of 
darkness.  The  house  was  large;  and,  from  the  want  of  furniture, 
the  noise  of  the  rats  made  a  prodigious  echoing  on  the  spacious 
stair-case  and  hall;  and,  amidst  the  real  fleshly  ills  of  cold,  and, 


228  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

I  fear,  hunger,  the  forsaken  child  had  found  leisure  to  suffer  still 
more  (it  appeared)  from  the  self-created  one  of  ghosts.  I 
promised  her  protection  against  all  ghosts  whatsoever:  but,  alas! 
I  could  offer  her  no  other  assistance.  We  lay  upon  the  floor, 
with  a  bundle  of  cursed  law  papers  for  a  pillow:  but  with  no 
other  covering  than  a  sort  of  large  horseman's  cloak:  afterwards, 
however,  we  discovered,  in  a  garret,  an  old  sofa-cover,  a  small 
piece  of  rug,  and  some  fragments  of  other  articles,  which  added 
a  little  to  our  warmth.  The  poor  child  crept  close  to  me  for 
warmth,  and  for  security  against  her  ghostly  enemies. 

When  I  was  not  more  than  usually  ill,  I  took  her  into  my 
arms,  so  that,  in  general,  she  was  tolerably  warm,  and  often 
slept  when  I  could  not:  for,  during  the  last  two  months  of  my 
sufferings,  I  slept  much  in  day-time,  and  was  apt  to  fall  into 
transient  dozings  at  all  hours.  But  my  sleep  distressed  me  more 
than  my  watching:  for,  besides  the  tumultuousness  of  my 
dreams  (which  were  only  not  so  awful  as  those  which  I  shall 
have  to  describe  hereafter  as  produced  by  opium),  my  sleep 
was  never  more  than  what  is  called  dog-sleep;  so  that  I  could 
hear  myself  moaning,  and  was  often,  as  it  seemed  to  me, 
wakened  suddenly  by  my  own  voice;  and,  about  this  time,  a 
hideous  sensation  began  to  haunt  me  as  soon  as  I  fell  into  a  slum- 
ber, which  has  since  returned  upon  me,  at  different  periods  of 
my  life,  viz.  a  sort  of  twitching  (I  know  not  where,  but  apparently 
about  the  region  of  the  stomach),  which  compelled  me  violently 
to  throw  out  my  feet  for  the  sake  of  relieving  it.  This  sensation 
coming  on  as  soon  as  I  began  to  sleep,  and  the  effort  to  relieve 
it  constantly  awaking  me,  at  length  I  slept  only  from  exhaustion; 
and  from  increasing  weakness  (as  I  said  before)  I  was  constantly 
falling  asleep,  and  constantly  awaking. 

Meantime,  the  master  of  the  house  sometimes  came  in  upon 
us  suddenly,  and  very  early,  sometimes  not  till  ten  o'clock,  some- 
times not  at  all.  He  was  in  constant  fear  of  bailiffs:  improving 
on  the  plan  of  Cromwell,  every  night  he  slept  in  a  different 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY  229 

quarter  of  London;  and  I  observed  that  he  never  failed  to 
examine,  through  a  private  window,  the  appearance  of  those  who 
knocked  at  the  door,  before  he  would  allow  it  to  be  opened.  He 
breakfasted  alone:  indeed,  his  tea  equipage  would  hardly  have 
admitted  of  his  hazarding  an  invitation  to  a  second  person — 
any  more  than  the  quantity  of  esculent  materiel^  which,  for  the 
most  part,  was  little  more  than  a  roll,  or  a  few  biscuits,  which  he 
had  bought  on  his  road  from  the  place  where  he  had  slept. 

During  his  breakfast,  I  generally  contrived  a  reason  for  loimg- 
ing  in;  and,  with  an  air  of  as  much  indifference  as  I  could  as- 
sume, took  up  such  fragments  as  he  had  left — sometimes,  indeed, 
there  were  none  at  all.  In  doing  this,  I  committed  no  robbery 
except  upon  the  man  himself,  who  was  thus  obliged  (I  believe) 
now  and  then  to  send  out  at  noon  for  an  extra  biscuit;  for,  as  to 
the  poor  child,  she  was  never  admitted  into  his  study  (if  I  may 
give  that  name  to  his  chief  depository  of  parchments,  law  writ- 
ings, &c.);  that  room  was  to  her  the  Blue-beard  room  of  the 
house,  being  regularly  locked  on  his  departure  to  dinner,  about 
six  o'clock,  which  usually  was  his  final  departure  for  the  night. 
Whether  this  child  were  an  illegitimate  daughter  of  Mr.  [Bru- 
nell],  or  only  a  servant,  I  could  not  ascertain;  she  did  not  herself 
know;  but  certainly  she  was  treated  altogether  as  a  menial  serv- 
ant. No  sooner  did  Mr.  [Brunell]  make  his  appearance,  than 
she  went  below  stairs,  brushed  his  shoes,  coat,  &c. ;  and,  except 
when  she  was  summoned  to  run  an  errand,  she  never  emerged 
from  the  dismal  Tartarus  of  the  kitchens,  &c.  to  the  upper  air, 
until  my  welcome  knock  at  night  called  up  her  little  trembling 
footsteps  to  the  front  door.  Of  her  life  during  the  daytime,  how- 
ever, I  knew  little  but  what  I  gathered  from  her  own  account  at 
night;  for,  as  soon  as  the  hours  of  business  commenced,  I  saw 
that  my  absence  would  be  acceptable;  and,  in  general,  therefore, 
I  went  off  and  sate  in  the  parks,  or  elsewhere,  until  nightfall. 


230       .  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

In  common  with  the  rats,  I  sate  rent  free;  and,  as  Dr.  Johnson 
has  recorded,  that  he  never  but  once  in  his  Hfe  had  as  much  wall- 
fruit  as  he  could  eat,  so  let  me  be  grateful,  that  on  that  single  oc- 
casion I  had  as  large  a  choice  of  apartments  in  a  London  mansion 
as  I  could  possibly  desire.  Except  the  Blue-beard  room,  which 
the  poor  child  believed  to  be  haunted,  all  others,  from  the  attics 
to  the  cellars,  were  at  our  service;  "the  world  was  all  before  us"; 
and  we  pitched  our  tent  for  the  night  in  any  spot  we  chose.  This 
house  I  have  already  described  as  a  large  one;  it  stands  in  a  con- 
spicuous situation,  and  in  a  well-known  part  of  London.  Many 
of  my  readers  will  have  passed  it,  I  doubt  not,  within  a  few  hours 
of  reading  this.  For  myself,  I  never  fail  to  visit  it  when  business 
draws  me  to  London;  about  ten  o'clock,  this  very  night,  August 
15,  182 1,  being  my  birth-day — I  turned  aside  from  my  evening 
walk,  down  Oxford-street,  purposely  to  take  a  glance  at  it:  it  is 
now  occupied  by  a  respectable  family;  and,  by  the  lights  in  the 
front  drawing-room,  I  observed  a  domestic  party,  assembled  per- 
haps at  tea,  and  apparently  cheerful  and  gay.  Marvellous  con- 
trast in  my  eyes  to  the  darkness — cold — silence — and  desolation 
of  that  same  house  eighteen  years  ago,  when  its  nightly  occu- 
pants were  one  famishing  scholar,  and  a  neglected  child. — Her,  by 
the  bye,  in  after  years,  I  vainly  endeavoured  to  trace.  Apart 
from  her  situation,  she  was  not  what  would  be  called  an  inter- 
esting child:  she  was  neither  pretty,  nor  quick  in  understanding, 
nor  remarkably  pleasing  in  manners.  But,  thank  God!  even  in 
those  years  I  needed  not  the  embellishments  of  novel-accessories 
to  conciliate  my  affections;  plain  human  nature,  in  its  humblest 
and  most  homely  apparel,  was  enough  for  me:  and  I  loved  the 
child  because  she  was  my  partner  in  wretchedness.  If  she  is  now 
living,  she  is  probably  a  mother,  with  children  of  her  own;  but, 
as  I  have  said,  I  could  never  trace  her. 

This  I  regret,  but  another  person  there  was  at  that  time,  whom 
I  have  since  sought  to  trace  with  far  deeper  earnestness,  and 
with  far  deeper  sorrow  at  my  failure.    This  person  was  a  young 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY  231 

woman,  and  one  of  that  unhappy  class  who  subsist  upon  the 
wages  of  prostitution.  I  feel  no  shame,  nor  have  any  reason  to 
feel  it,  in  avowing,  that  I  was  then  on  familiar  and  friendly  terms 
with  many  women  in  that  unfortunate  condition.  The  reader 
needs  neither  smile  at  this  avowal,  nor  frown.  For,  not  to  remind 
my  classical  readers  of  the  old  Latin  proverb — ^Sine  Cererej'  &c., 
it  may  well  be  supposed  that  in  the  existing  state  of  my  purse,  my 
connection  with  such  women  could  not  have  been  an  impure  one. 
But  the  truth  is,  that  at  no  time  of  my  life  have  I  been  a  person 
to  hold  myself  polluted  by  the  touch  or  approach  of  any  creature 
that  wore  a  human  shape:  on  the  contrary,  from  my  very  earliest 
youth  it  has  been  my  pride  to  converse  familiarly,  more  Socratico, 
with  all  human  beings,  man,  woman,  and  child,  that  chance 
might  fling  in  my  way:  a  practice  which  is  friendly  to  the  knowl- 
edge of  human  nature,  to  good  feelings,  and  to  that  frankness 
of  address  which  becomes  a  man  who  would  be  thought  a  philos- 
opher. For  a  philosopher  should  not  see  with  the  eyes  of  the 
poor  limitary  creature  calling  himself  a  man  of  the  world,  and 
filled  with  narrow  and  self-regarding  prejudices  of  birth  and  edu- 
cation, but  should  look  upon  himself  as  a  Catholic  creature,  and 
as  standing  in  equal  relation  to  high  and  low — to  educated  and 
uneducated,  to  the  guilty  and  the  innocent.  Being  myself  at 
that  time  of  necessity  a  peripatetic,  or  a  walker  of  the  streets,  I 
naturally  fell  in  more  frequently  with  those  female  peripatetics 
who  are  technically  called  Street-walkers.  Many  of  these  women 
had  occasionally  taken  my  part  against  watchmen  who  wished 
to  drive  me  off  the  steps  of  houses  where  I  was  sitting. 

But  one  amongst  them,  the  one  on  whose  account  I  have  at  all 
introduced  this  subject — yet  no !  let  me  not  class  thee,  Oh  noble- 
minded  Ann ,  with  that  order  of  women ;  let  me  find,  if  it 

be  possible,  some  gentler  name  to  designate  the  condition  of  her 
to  whose  bounty  and  compassion,  ministering  to  my  necessities 
when  all  the  world  had  forsaken  me,  I  owe  it  that  I  am  at  this 
time  aHve. — For  many  weeks  I  had  walked  at  nights  with  this 


232  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

poor  friendless  girl  up  and  down  Oxford  Street,  or  had  rested 
with  her  on  steps  and  under  the  shelter  of  porticos.  She  could 
not  be  so  old  as  myself:  she  told  me,  indeed,  that  she  had  not 
completed  her  sixteenth  year.  By  such  questions  as  my  interest 
about  her  prompted,  I  had  gradually  drawn  forth  her  simple  his- 
tory. Hers  was  a  case  of  ordinary  occurrence  (as  I  have  since 
had  reason  to  think),  and  one  in  which,  if  London  beneficence  had 
better  adapted  its  arrangements  to  meet  it,  the  power  of  the 
law  might  oftener  be  interposed  to  protect,  and  to  avenge.  But 
the  stream  of  London  charity  flows  in  a  channel  which,  though 
deep  and  mighty,  is  yet  noiseless  and  underground;  not  obvious 
or  readily  accessible  to  poor  houseless  wanderers:  and  it  cannot 
be  denied  that  the  outside  air  and  framework  of  London  society 
is  harsh,  cruel,  and  repulsive.  In  any  case,  however,  I  saw  that 
part  of  her  injuries  might  easily  have  been  redressed:  and  I 
urged  her  often  and  earnestly  to  lay  her  complaint  before  a 
magistrate:  friendless  as  she  jvas,  I  assured  her  that  she  would 
meet  with  immediate  attention;  and  that  English  justice,  which 
was  no  respecter  of  persons,  would  speedily  and  amply  avenge 
her  on  the  brutal  ruffian  who  had  plundered  her  little 
propisrty.  She  promised  me  often  that  she  would;  but  she 
delayed  taking  the  steps  I  pointed  out  from  time  to  time:  for 
she  was  timid  and  dejected  to  a  degree  which  showed  how 
deeply  sorrow  had  taken  hold  of  her  young  heart;  and  perhaps 
she  thought  justly  that  the  most  upright  judge,  and  the  most 
righteous  tribunals,  could  do  nothing  to  repair  her  heaviest 
wrongs.  Something,  however,  would  perhaps  have  been  done: 
for  it  had  been  settled  between  us  at  length,  but  unhappily  on 
the  very  last  time  but  one  that  I  was  ever  to  see  her,  that  in  a 
day  or  two  we  should  go  together  before  a  magistrate,  and  that 
I  should  speak  on  her  behalf.  This  Httle  service  it  was  destined, 
however,  that  I  should  never  realise. 

Meantime,  that  which  she  rendered  to  me,  and  which  was 
greater  than  I  could  ever  have  repaid  her,  was  this: — One  night, 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY  233 

when  we  were  pacing  slowly  along  Oxford  Street,  and  after  a  day 
when  I  had  felt  more  than  usually  ill  and  faint,  I  requested  her 
to  turn  ofif  with  me  into  Soho  Square:  thither  we  went;  and  we 
sate  down  on  the  steps  of  a  house,  which,  to  this  hour,  I  never 
pass  without  a  pang  of  grief,  and  an  inner  act  of  homage  to  the 
spirit  of  that  unhappy  girl,  in  memory  of  the  noble  action  which 
she  there  performed.  Suddenly,  as  we  sate,  I  grew  much  worse: 
I  had  been  leaning  my  head  against  her  bosom;  and  all  at  once 
I  sank  from  her  arms  and  fell  backwards  on  the  steps.  From  the 
sensations  I  then  had,  I  felt  an  inner  conviction  of  the  Uveliest 
kind  that  without  some  powerful  and  reviving  stimulus,  I  should 
either  have  died  on  the  spot — or  should  at  least  have  sunk  to  a 
point  of  exhaustion  from  which  all  reascent  under  my  friendless 
circumstances  would  soon  have  become  hopeless.  Then  it  was, 
at  this  crisis  of  my  fate,  that  my  poor  orphan  companion — who 
had  herself  met  with  little  but  injuries  in  this  world — stretched 
out  a  saving  hand  to  me.  Uttering  a  cry  of  terror,  but  without  a 
moment's  delay,  she  ran  off  into  Oxford  Street,  and  in  less  time 
than  could  be  imagined,  returned  to  me  with  a  glass  of  port  wine 
and  spices,  that  acted  upon  my  empty  stomach  (which  at  that 
time  would  have  rejected  all  solid  food)  with  an  instantaneous 
power  of  restoration:  and  for  this  glass  the  generous  girl  without 
a  murmur  paid  out  of  her  humble  purse  at  a  time — be  it  remem- 
bered!— when  she  had  scarcely  wherewithal  to  purchase  the  bare 
necessaries  of  life,  and  when  she  could  have  no  reason  to  expect 
that  I  should  ever  be  able  to  reimburse  her. — Oh !  youthful  bene- 
factress! how  often  in  succeeding  years,  standing  in  solitary 
places,  and  thinking  of  thee  with  grief  of  heart  and  perfect  love, 
how  often  have  I  wished  that,  as  in  ancient  times  the  curse  of  a 
father  was  believed  to  have  a  supernatural  power,  and  to  pursue 
its  object  with  a  fatal  necessity  of  self-fulfilment, — even  so  the 
benediction  of  a  heart  oppressed  with  gratitude  might  have  a 
like  prerogative;  might  have  power  given  to  it  from  above  to 
chace — to  haunt — to  way-lay — to  overtake — to  pursue  thee  into 


234  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

the  central  darkness  of  a  London  brothel,  or  (if  it  were  possible) 
into  the  darkness  of  the  grave — there  to  awaken  thee  with 
an  authentic  message  of  peace  and  forgiveness,  and  of  final 
reconciliation! 

I  do  not  often  weep:  for  not  only  do  my  thoughts  on  subjects 
connected  with  the  chief  interests  of  man  daily,  nay  hourly, 
descend  a  thousand  fathoms  "too  deep  for  tears";  not  only  does 
the  sternness  of  my  habits  of  thought  present  an  antagonism  to 
the  feelings  which  prompt  tears — wanting  of  necessity  to  those 
who,  being  protected  usually  by  their  levity  from  any  tendency 
to  meditative  sorrow,  would  by  that  same  levity  be  made  in- 
capable of  resisting  it  on  any  casual  access  of  such  feelings : — but 
also,  I  believe  that  all  minds  which  have  contemplated 
such  objects  as  deeply  as  I  have  done,  must,  for  their  own 
protection  from  utter  despondency,  have  early  encouraged  and 
cherished  some  tranquilizing  belief  as  to  the  future  balances 
and  the  hieroglyphic  meanings  of  human  sufferings.  On  these 
accounts,  I  am  cheerful  to  this  hour:  and,  as  I  have  said,  I  do 
not  often  weep.  Yet  some  feelings,  though  not  deeper  or  more 
passionate,  are  more  tender  than  others:  and  often,  when  I  walk 
at  this  time  in  Oxford  Street  by  dreamy  lamplight,  and  hear 
those  airs  played  on  a  barrel-organ  which  years  ago  solaced  me 
and  my  dear  companion  (as  I  must  always  call  her)  I  shed 
tears,  and  muse  with  myself  at  the  mysterious  dispensation 
which  so  suddenly  and  so  critically  separated  us  forever.  How 
it  happened,  the  reader  will  understand  from  what  remains  of 
this  introductory  narration. 

Soon  after  the  period  of  the  last  incident  I  have  recorded,  I 
met,  in  Albemarle  Street,  a  gentleman  of  his  late  Majesty's 
household.  This  gentleman  had  received  hospitalities,  on  dif- 
ferent occasions,  from  my  family:  and  he  challenged  me  upon 
the  strength  of  my  family  likeness.  I  did  not  attempt  any 
disguise:  I  answered  his  questions  ingenuously, —  and,  on  his 
pledging  his  word  of  honour  that  he  would  not  betray  me  to  my 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY  235 

guardians,  I  gave  him  an  address  to  my  friend  the  Attorney's. 
The  next  day  I  received  from  him  a  10/.  Bank-note.  The  letter 
inclosing  it  was  dehvered  with  other  letters  of  business  to  the 
attorney:  but,  though  his  look  and  manner  informed  me  that 
he  suspected  its  contents,  he  gave  it  up  to  me  honourably  and 
without  demur. 

This  present,  from  the  particular  service  to  which  it  was 
applied,  leads  me  naturally  to  speak  of  the  purpose  which 
had  allured  me  up  to  London,  and  which  I  had  been  (to  use 
a  forensic  word)  soliciting  from  the  first  day  of  my  arrival  in 
London,  to  that  of  any  final  departure. 

No  mode  sufficiently  speedy  of  obtaining  money  had  ever 
occurred  to  me,  but  that  of  borrowing  it  on  the  strength  of  my 
future  claims  and  expectations.  This  mode  I  sought  by  every 
avenue  to  compass:  and  amongst  other  persons  I  applied  to  a 
Jew  named  D[ell]. 

To  this  Jew,  and  to  other  advertising  money-lenders  (some  of 
whom  were,  I  believe,  also  Jews),  I  had  introduced  myself  with 
an  account  of  my  expectations;  which  account,  on  examining 
my  father's  will  at  Doctor's  Commons,  they  had  ascertained  to 
be  correct.  The  person  th^e  mentioned  as  the  second  son  of 
[Thomas  Quincey],  was  found  to  have  all  the  claims  (or  more 
than  all)  that  I  had  stated:  but  one  question  still  remained, 
which  the  faces  of  the  Jews  pretty  significantly  suggested, —  was 
/  that  person?  This  doubt  had  never  occurred  to  me  as  a  pos- 
sible one:  I  had  rather  feared,  whenever  my  Jewish  friends 
scrutinised  me  keenly,  that  I  might  be  too  well  "known  to  be  that 
person — and  that  some  scheme  might  be  passing  in  their  minds 
for  entrapping  me  and  selHng  me  to  my  guardians.  It  was 
strange  to  me  to  find  my  own  self,  materialiter  considered  (so  I 
expressed  it,  for  I  doated  on  logical  accuracy  of  distinctions), 
accused,  or  at  least  suspected,  of  counterfeiting  my  own  self, 
formaliter  considered.    However,  to  satisfy  their  scruples,  I  took 


236  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

the  only  course  in  my  power.  Whilst  I  was  in  Wales,  I  had 
received  various  letters  from  young  friends:  these  I  produced: 
for  I  carried  them  constantly  in  my  pocket — being,  indeed,  by 
this  time,  almost  the  only  relics  of  my  personal  encumbrances 
(excepting  the  clothes  I  wore)  which  I  had  not  in  one  way  or 
other  disposed  of.  Most  of  these  letters  were  from  the  Earl  of 
[Altamont],  who  was  at  that  time  my  chief  (or  rather  only) 
confidential  friend.  These  letters  were  dated  from  Eton.  I  had 
also  some  from  the  Marquis  of  [Sligo],  his  father,  who,  though 
absorbed  in  agricultural  pursuits,  yet  having  been  an  Etonian 
himself,  and  as  good  a  scholar  as  a  nobleman  needs  to  be — still 
retained  an  affection  for  classical  studies,  and  for  youthful 
scholars.  He  had,  accordingly,  from  the  time  that  I  was  fifteen, 
corresponded  with  me;  sometimes  upon  the  great  improvements 
which  he  had  made,  or  was  meditating,  in  the  counties  of  M[ayo] 
and  Sl[igo]  since  I  had  been  there;  sometimes  upon  the  merits  of 
a  Latin  poet;  and  at  other  times,  suggesting  subjects  to  me  on 
which  he  wished  me  to  write  verses. 

On  reading  the  letters,  one  of  my  Jewish  friends  agreed  to  fur- 
nish two  or  three  hundred  pounds  on  my  personal  security — pro- 
vided I  could  persuade  the  young  Earl,  who  was,  by  the  way,  not 
older  than  myself,  to  guarantee  the  payment  on  our  coming  of 
age:  the  Jew's  final  object  being,  as  I  now  suppose,  not  the  tri- 
fling profit  he  could  expect  to  make  by  me,  but  the  prospect  of 
establishing  a  connection  with  my  noble  friend,  whose  immense 
expectations  were  well  known  to  him.  In  pursuance  of  this 
proposal  on  the  part  of  the  Jew,  about  eight  or  nine  days  after 
I  had  received  the  10/.,  I  prepared  to  go  down  to  Eton.  Nearly 
3/.  of  the  money  I  had  given  to  my  money-lending  friend,  on  his 
alleging  that  the  stamps  must  be  bought,  in  order  that  the  writ- 
ings might  be  preparing  whilst  I  was  away  from  London. 
I  thought  in  my  heart  that  he  was  lying;  but  I  did  not  wish 
to  give  him  any  excuse  for  charging  his  own  delays  upon  me. 
A  smaller  sum  I  had  given  to  my  friend  the  attorney  (who  was 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY  237 

connected  with  the  money-lenders  as  their  lawyer),  to  which, 
indeed,  he  was  entitled  for  his  unfurnished  lodgings.  About 
fifteen  shillings  I  had  employed  in  re-estabUshing  (though  in 
a  very  humble  way)  my  dress.  Of  the  remainder  I  gave  one 
quarter  to  Ann,  meaning  on  my  return  to  have  divided  with  her 
whatever  might  remain. 

These  arrangements  made, — soon  after  six  o'clock,  on  a  dark 
winter  evening,  I  set  off,  accompanied  by  Ann,  towards  Picca- 
dilly; for  it  was  my  intention  to  go  down  as  far  as  Salt-hill  on 
the  Bath  or  Bristol  Mail.  Our  course  lay  through  a  part  of  the 
town  which  has  now  all  disappeared,  so  that  I  can  no  longer 
retrace  its  ancient  boundaries:  Swallow-street,  I  think  it  was 
called.  Having  time  enough  before  us,  however,  we  bore  away 
to  the  left  until  we  came  into  Golden-square:  there,  near  the 
corner  of  Sherrard-street,  we  sat  down;  not  wishing  to  part  in 
the  tumult  and.  blaze  of  Piccadilly.  I  had  told  her  of  my  plans 
some  time  before:  and  I  now  assured  her  again  that  she  should 
share  in  my  good  fortune,  if  I  met  with  any;  and  that  I  would 
never  forsake  her,  as  soon  as  I  had  power  to  protect  her.  This 
I  fully  intended,  as  much  from  inclination  as  from  a  sense  of 
duty:  for,  setting  aside  gratitude,  which  in  any  case  must  have 
made  me  her  debtor  for  life,  I  loved  her  as  affectionately  as  if 
she  had  been  my  sister:  and  at  this  moment,  with  seven-fold 
tenderness,  from  pity  at  witnessing  her  extreme  dejection.  I  had, 
apparently,  most  reason  for  dejection,  because  I  was  leaving  the 
saviour  of  my  life:  yet  I,  considering  the  shock  my  health  had 
received,  was  cheerful  and  full  of  hope.  She,  on  the  contrary, 
who  was  parting  with  one  who  had  had  little  means  of  serving 
her,  except  by  kindness  and  brotherly  treatment,  was  overcome 
by  sorrow;  so  that,  when  I  kissed  her  at  our  final  farewell,  she 
put  her  arms  about  my  neck,  and  wept  without  speaking  a  word. 
I  hoped  to  return  in  a  week  at  farthest,  and  I  agreed  with  her 
that  on  the  fifth  night  from  that,  and  every  night  afterwards, 
she  should  wait  for  me  at  six  o'clock,  near   the  bottom  of 


238  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

GreatTitchfield-street,  which  had  been  our  customary  haven,  as 
it  were,  of  rendezvous,  to  prevent  our  missing  each  other  in  the 
great  Mediterranean  of  Oxford-street. 

This,  and  other  measures  of  precaution,  I  took:  one  only  I 
forgot.  She  had  either  never  told  me,  or  (as  a  matter  of  no  great 
interest)  I  had  forgotten,  her  surname.  It  is  a  general  practice, 
indeed,  with  girls  of  humble  rank  in  her  unhappy  condition,  not 
(as  novel-reading  women  of  higher  pretensions)  to  style  them- 
selves— Miss  Douglas,  Miss  Montague,  &c.  but  simply  by  their 
Christian  names,  Mary,  Jane,  Frances,  &c.  Her  surname,  as  the 
surest  means  of  tracing  her  hereafter,  I  ought  now  to  have 
inquired:  but  the  truth  is,  having  no  reason  to  think  that  our 
meeting  could,  in  consequence  of  a  short  interruption,  be  more 
difficult  or  uncertain  than  it  had  been  for  so  many  weeks,  I  had 
scarcely  for  a  moment  adverted  to  it  as  necessary,  or  placed  it 
amongst  my  memoranda  against  this  parting  interview:  and, 
my  final  anxieties  being  spent  in  comforting  her  with  hopes,  and 
in  pressing  upon  her  the  necessity  of  getting  some  medicines  for  a 
violent  cough  and  hoarseness  with  which  she  was  troubled,  I 
wholly  forgot  it  until  it  was  too  late  to  recall  her. 

It  was  past  eight  o'clock  when  I  reached  the  Gloucester  Coffee- 
house: and,  the  Bristol  Mail  being  on  the  point  of  going  off,  I 
mounted  on  the  outside.  The  fine  fluent  motion  of  this  Mail  soon 
laid  me  asleep :  it  is  somewhat  remarkable,  that  the  first  easy  or 
refreshing  sleep  which  I  had  enjoyed  for  some  months,  was  on 
the  outside  of  a  Mail-coach — a  bed  which,  at  this  day,  I  find 
rather  an  uneasy  one.     .     .     . 

For  the  first  four  or  five  miles  from  London,  I  annoyed  my 
fellow-passenger  on  the  roof  by  occasionally  falling  against  him 
when  the  coach  gave  a  lurch  to  his  side;  and  indeed,  if  the  road 
had  been  less  smooth  and  level  than  it  is,  I  should  have  fallen 
off  from  weakness.  Of  this  annoyance  he  complained  heavily, 
as  perhaps,  in  the  same  circumstances  most  people  would;  he 
expressed  his  complaint,  however,  more  morosely  than  the  occa- 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY  239 

sion  seemed  to  warrant;  and,  if  I  had  parted  with  him  at  that 
moment,  I  should  have  thought  of  him  (if  I  had  considered  it  worth 
while  to  think  of  him  at  all)  as  a  surly  and  almost  brutal  fellow. 
However,  I  was  conscious  that  I  had  given  him  some  cause  for 
complaint:  and,  therefore,  I  apologized  to  him,  and  assured  him 
I  would  do  what  I  could  to  avoid  falling  asleep  for  the  future; 
and,  at  the  same  time,  in  as  few  words  as  possible,  I  explained  to 
him  that  I  was  ill  and  in  a  weak  state  from  long  suffering;  and 
that  I  could  not  afford  at  that  time  to  take  an  inside  place.  This 
man's  manner  changed,  upon  hearing  this  explanation,  in  an 
instant:  and  when  I  next  woke  for  a  minute  from  the  noise 
and  lights  of  Hounslow  (for  in  spite  of  my  wishes  and  efforts  I 
had  fallen  asleep  again  within  two  minutes  from  the  time  I  had 
spoken  to  him)  I  found  that  he  had  put  his  arm  round  me  to 
protect  me  from  falling  off:  and  for  the  rest  of  my  journey  he 
behaved  to  me  with  the  gentleness  of  a  woman,  so  that,  at  length, 
I  almost  lay  in  his  arms :  and  this  was  the  more  kind,  as  he  could 
not  have  known  that  I  was  not  going  the  whole  way  to  Bath  or 
Bristol. 

Unfortunately,  indeed,  I  did  go  rather  farther  than  I  intended: 
for  so  genial  and  refreshing  was  my  sleep,  that  the  next  time, 
after  leaving  Hounslow  that  I  fully  awoke,  was  upon  the  sudden 
puUing  up  of  the  Mail  (possibly  at  a  Post-office) ;  and,  on  inquiry, 
I  found  that  we  had  reached  Maidenhead — six  or  seven  miles,  I 
think,  a-head  of  Salt-Hill.  Here  I  alighted:  and  for  the  half 
minute  that  the  Mail  stopped,  I  was  entreated  by  my  friendly 
companion  (who,  from  the  transient  glimpse  I  had  had  of  him  in 
Piccadilly,  seemed  to  me  to  be  a  gentleman's  butler — or  person  of 
that  rank)  to  go  to  bed  without  delay.  This  I  promised,  though 
with  no  intention  of  doing  so:  and  in  fact,  I  immediately  set 
forward,  or  rather  backward,  on  foot. 

It  must  then  have  been  nearly  midnight:  but  so  slowly  did 
I  creep  along,  that  I  heard  a  clock  in  a  cottage  strike  four  before 
I  turned  down  the  lane  from  Slough  to  Eton.    The  air  and 


240  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

the  sleep  had  both  refreshed  me;  but  I  was  weary  nevertheless. 
I  remember  a  thought  (obvious  enough,  and  which  has  been 
prettily  expressed  by  a  Roman  poet)  which  gave  me  some 
consolation  at  that  moment  under  my  poverty.  There  had  been 
some  time  before  a  murder  committed  on  or  near  Hounslow- 
heath.  I  think  I  cannot  be  mistaken  when  I  say  that  the  name 
of  the  murdered  person  was  Steele^  and  that  he  was  the  owner  of  a 
lavender  plantation  in  that  neighbourhood.  Every  step  of  my 
progress  was  bringing  me  nearer  to  the  Heath:  and  it  naturally 
occurred  to  me  that  I  and  the  accused  murderer,  if  he  were  that 
night  abroad,  might  at  every  instant  be  unconsciously  approach- 
ing each  other  through  the  darkness:  in  which  case,  said  I, — 
supposing  I,  instead  of  being  (as  indeed  I  am)  Httle  better  than 
an  outcast, — 

Lord  of  my  learning  and  no  land  beside, 

were,  like  my  friend,  Lord  [Altamont],  heir  by  general  repute  to 
70,000/.  per  ann.,  what  a  panic  should  I  be  under  at  this  moment 
about  my  throat! — indeed,  it  was  not  likely  that  Lord  [Alta- 
mont] should  ever  be  in  my  situation. 

I  dally  with  my  subject  because,  to  myself,  the  remembrance 
of  these  times  is  profoundly  interesting.  But  my  reader  shall 
not  have  any  further  cause  to  complain:  for  I  now  hasten  to  its 
close. —  In  the  road  between  Slough  and  Eton,  I  fell  asleep :  and, 
just  as  the  morning  began  to  dawn,  I  was  awakened  by  the  voice 
of  a  man  standing  over  me  and  surveying  me.  I  know  not  what 
he  was:  he  was  an  ill-looking  fellow — but  not  therefore  of  neces- 
sity an  ill-meaning  fellow:  or,  if  he  were,  I  suppose  he  thought 
that  no  person  sleeping  out-of-doors  in  winter  could  be  worth 
robbing.  In  which  conclusion,  however,  as  it  regarded  myself,  I 
beg  to  assure  him,  if  he  should  be  among  my  readers,  that  he  was 
mistaken.  After  a  slight  remark  he  passed  on:  and  I  was  not 
sorry  at  his  disturbance,  as  it  enabled  me  to  pass  through  Eton 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY  241 

before  people  were  generally  up.  The  night  had  been  heavy  and 
lowering:  but  towards  the  morning  it  had  changed  to  a  slight 
frost:  and  the  ground  and  the  trees  were  now  covered  with  rime. 
I  shpped  through  Eton  unobserved;  washed  myself,  and/ as  far 
as  possible,  adjusted  my  dress  at  a  little  public-house  in  Windsor; 
and  about  eight  o'clock  went  down  towards  Pote's.  On  my  road 
I  met  some  junior  boys,  of  whom  I  made  inquiries:  an  Etonian  is 
always  a  gentleman;  and,  in  spite  of  my  shabby  habiliments, 
they  answered  me  civilly.  My  friend,  Lord  [Altamont],  was  gone 
to  the  University  of  [Cambridge].  *Ibi  omnis  effusus  labor!'  I 
had,  however,  other  friends  at  Eton:  but  it  is  not  to  all  who  wear 
that  name  in  prosperity  that  a  man  is  willing  to  present  himself 
in  distress.  On  recollecting  myself,  however,  I  asked  for  the 
Earl  of  D[esart],  to  whom,  (though  my  acquaintance  with  him 
was  not  so  intimate  as  with  some  others)  I  should  not  have 
shrunk  from  presenting  myself  under  any  circumstances.  He 
was  still  at  Eton,  though  I  believe  on  the  wing  for  Cambridge. 
I  called,  was  received  kindly,  and  asked  to  breakfast. 

Lord  D[esart]  placed  before  me  a  most  magnificent  breakfast. 
It  was  really  so;  but  in  my  eyes  it  seemed  trebly  magnificent — 
from  being  the  first  regular  meal,  the  first  "good  man's  table," 
that  I  had  sate  down  to  for  months.  Strange  to  say,  however,  I 
could  scarce  eat  anything.  On  the  day  when  I  first  received  my 
10/.  Bank-note,  I  had  gone  to  a  baker's  shop  and  bought  a  couple 
of  rolls:  this  very  shop  I  had  two  months  or  six  weeks  before  sur- 
veyed with  an  eagerness  of  desire  which  it  was  almost  humiliating 
to  me  to  recollect.  I  remembered  the  story  about  Otway;  and 
feared  that  there  might  be  danger  in  eating  too  rapidly.  But  I 
had  no  need  for  alarm,  my  appetite  was  quite  sunk,  and  I  be- 
came sick  before  I  had  eaten  half  of  what  I  had  bought.  This 
effect  from  eating  what  approached  to  a  meal,  I  continued  to 
feel  for  weeks :  or,  when  I  did  not  experience  any  nausea,  part 
of  what  I  ate  was  rejected,  sometimes  with  acidity,  sometimes 
16 


242  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

immediately,  and  without  any  acidity.  On  the  present  occasion, 
at  Lord  D  [esart]  's  table  I  found  myself  not  at  all  better  than  usual : 
and,  in  the  midst  of  luxuries,  I  had  no  appetite.  I  had,  however, 
unfortunately  at  all  times  a  craving  for  wine:  I- explained  my 
situation,  therefore,  to  Lord  D [esart],  and  gave  him  a  short 
account  of  my  late  sufferings,  at  which  he  expressed  great  com- 
passion, and  called  for  wine.  This  gave  me  a  momentary  relief 
and  pleasure;  and  on  all  occasions  when  I  had  an  opportunity,  I » 
never  failed  to  drink  wine — which  I  worshipped  then  as  I  have 
since  worshipped  opium.  I  am  convinced,  however,  that  this 
indulgence  in  wine  contributed  to  strengthen  my  malady;  for 
the  tone  of  my  stomach  was  apparently  quite  sunk;  and  by  a 
better  regimen  it  might  sooner,  and  perhaps  effectually,  have 
been  revived.  I  hope  that  it  was  not  from  this  love  of  wine  that 
I  lingered  in  the  neighbourhood  of  my  Eton  friends :  I  persuaded 
myself  then  that  it  was  from  reluctance  to  ask  of  Lord  D [esart], 
on  whom  I  was  conscious  I  had  not  sufficient  claims,  the  particu- 
lar service  in  quest  of  which  I  had  come  down  to  Eton.  I  was, 
however,  unwilling  to  lose  my  journey,  and — I  asked  it.  Lord 
D [esart],  whose  good  nature  was  unbounded,  and  which,  in  re- 
gard to  myself,  had  been  measured  rather  by  his  compassion 
perhaps  for  my  condition,  and  his  knowledge  of  my  intimacy 
with  some  of  his  relatives,  than  by  an  over-rigorous  inquiry  into 
the  extent  of  my  own  direct  claims,  faultered,  nevertheless,  at 
this  request.  He  acknowledged  that  he  did  not  like  to  have  any 
deahngs  with  money-lenders,  and  feared  lest  such  a  transaction 
might  come  to  the  ears  of  his  connexions.  Moreover,  he  doubted 
whether  his  signature,  whose  expectations  were  so  much  more 
bounded  than  those  of  [his  cousin],  would  avail  with  my  unchris- 
tian friends.  However,  he  did  not  wish,  as  it  seemed,  to  mortify 
me  by  an  absolute  refusal:  for  after  a  little  consideration,  he 
promised,  under  certain  conditions  which  he  pointed  out,  to 
give  his  security. 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY  243 

Recomf orted  by  this  promise,  which  was  not  quite  equal  to  the 
best,  but  far  above  the  worst  that  I  had  pictured  to  myself  as 
possible,  I  returned  in  a  Windsor  coach  to  London  three  days 
after  I  had  quitted  it.  And  now  I  come  to  the  end  of  my  story : — 
The  Jews  did  not  approve  of  Lord  D[esart]'s  terms;  whether 
they  would  in  the  end  have  acceded  to  them,  and  were  only  seek- 
ing time  for  making  due  inquiries,  I  know  not;  but  many  delays 
were  made — time  passed  on — the  small  fragment  of  my  bank 
note  had  just  melted  away;  and  before  any  conclusion  could 
have  been  put  to  the  business,  I  must  have  relapsed  into  my 
former  state  of  wretchedness.  Suddenly,  however,  at  this  crisis, 
an  opening  was  made,  almost  by  accident,  for  reconcihation  with 
my  friends.  I  quitted  London,  in  haste,  for  a  remote  part  of 
England:  after  some  time,  I  proceeded  to  the  university;  and 
it  was  not  until  many  months  had  passed  away,  that  I  had  it 
in  my  power  again  to  re-visit  the  ground  which  had  become  so 
interesting  to  me,  and  to  this  day  remains  so,  as  the  chief  scene 
of  my  youthful  suflFerings. 

Meantime,  what  had  become  of  poor  Anne?  For  her  I  have 
reserved  my  concluding  words:  according  to  our  agreement,  I 
sought  her  daily,  and  waited  for  her  every  night,  so  long  as  I 
staid  in  London,  at  the  corner  of  Titchfield-street.  I  inquired 
for  her  of  every  one  who  was  likely  to  know  her;  and,  during  the 
last  hours  of  my  stay  in  London,  I  put  into  activity  every  means 
of  tracing  her  that  my  knowledge  of  London  suggested,  and  the 
limited  extent  of  my  power  made  possible.  The  street  where  she 
had  lodged  I  knew,  but  not  the  house;  and  I  remembered  at  last 
some  account  which  she  had  given  me  of  ill  treatment  from  her 
landlord,  which  made  it  probable  that  she  had  quitted  those 
lodgings  before  we  parted.  She  had  few  acquaintance;  most 
people,  besides,  thought  that  the  earnestness  of  my  inquiries  arose 
from  motives  which  moved  their  laughter,  or  their  slight  regard; 
and  others,  thinking  I  was  in  chase  of  a  girl  who  had  robbed  me 
of  some  trifles,  were  naturally  and  excusably  indisposed  to  give 


244  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

me  any  clue  to  her,  if,  indeed,  they  had  any  to  give.  Finally,  as 
my  despairing  resource,  on  the  day  I  left  London  I  put  into  the 
hands  of  the  only  person  "who  (I  was  sure)  must  know  Anne  by 
sight,  from  having  been  in  company  with  us  once  or  twice,  an 
address  to  [the  Priory]  in  [Chester]shire,  at  that  time  the  resi- 
dence of  my  family.  But,  to  this  hour,  I  have  never  heard  a 
syllable  about  her.  This,  amongst  such  troubles  as  most  men 
meet  with  in  this  life,  has  been  my  heaviest  affliction. —  If  she 
lived,  doubtless  we  must  have  been  sometimes  in  search  of  each 
other,  at  the  very  same  moment,  through  the  mighty  labyrinths 
of  London;  perhaps,  even  within  a  few  feet  of  each  other — a 
barrier  no  wider  in  a  London  street,  often  amounting  in  the  end 
to  a  separation  for  eternity!  During  some  years,  I  hoped  that 
she  did  hve;  and  I  suppose  that,  in  the  Hteral  and  unrhetorical 
use  of  the  word  myriad ^  I  may  say  that  on  my  different  visits  to 
London,  I  have  looked  into  many,  many  myriads  of  female 
faces,  in  the  hope  of  meeting  her.  I  should  know  her  again 
amongst  a  thousand,  if  I  saw  her  for  a  moment;  for,  though  not 
handsome,  she  had  a  sweet  expression  of  countenance,  and  a 
peculiar  and  graceful  carriage  of  the  head.^I  sought  her,  I  have 
said,  in  hope.  So  it  was  for  years;  but  now  I  should  fear  to  see 
her;  and  her  cough,  which  grieved  me  when  I  parted  with  her, 
is  now  my  consolation.  I  now  wish  to  see  her  no  longer;  but 
think  of  her  more  gladly,  as  one  long  since  laid  in  the  grave; 
in  the  grave,  I  would  hope,  of  a  Magdalen;  taken  away,  before 
injuries  and  cruelty  had  blotted  out  and  transfigured  her 
ingenuous  nature,  or  the  brutaUties  of  ruffians  had  completed 
the  ruin  they  had  begun. 


IV 

I  thought  that  it  was  a  Sunday  morning  in  May,  that  it  was 
Easter  Sunday,  and  as  yet  very  early  in  the  morning.  I  was 
standing,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  at  the  door  of  my  own  cottage. 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY  245 

Right  before  me  lay  the  very  scene  which  could  really  be  com- 
manded from  that  situation,  but  exalted,  as  was  usual,  and 
solemnized  by  the  power  of  dreams.  There  were  the  same 
mountains,  and  the  same  lovely  valley  at  their  feet;  but  the 
mountains  were  raised  to  more  than  Alpine  height,  and  there  was 
interspace  far  larger  between  them  of  meadows  and  forest  lawns; 
the  hedges  were  rich  with  white  roses;  and  no  living  creature 
was  to  be  seen,  excepting  that  in  the  green  church-yard  there 
were  cattle  tranquilly  reposing  upon  the  verdant  graves,  and 
particularly  round  about  the  grave  of  a  child  whom  I  had  ten- 
derly loved,  just  as  I  had  really  beheld  them,  a  little  before  sun- 
rise in  the  same  summer,  when  that  child  died.  I  gazed  upon  the 
well-known  scene,  and  I  said  aloud  (as  I  thought)  to  myself,  "It 
yet  wants  much  of  sun-rise;  and  it  is  Easter  Sunday;  and  that 
is  the  day  on  which  they  celebrate  the  first  fruits  of  resurrection. 
I  will  walk  abroad;  old  griefs  shall  be  forgotten  to-day;  for  the 
air  is  cool  and  still,  and  the  hills  are  high,  and  stretch  away  to 
Heaven;  and  the  forest-glades  are  as  quiet  as  the  church-yard; 
and  with  the  dew  I  can  wash  the  fever  from  my  forehead,  and 
then  I  shall  be  unhappy  no  longer." 

And  I  turned,  as  if  to  open  my  garden  gate;  and  immediately 
I  saw  upon  the  left  a  scene  far  different;  but  which  yet  the 
power  of  dreams  had  reconciled  into  harmony  with  the  other. 
The  scene  was  an  Oriental  one;  and  there  also  it  was  Easter 
Sunday,  and  very  early  in  the  morning.  And  at  a  vast  distance 
were  visible,  as  a  stain  upon  the  horizon,  the  domes  and  cupolas 
of  a  great  city — an  image  or  faint  abstraction,  caught  perhaps 
in  childhood  from  some  picture  of  Jerusalem.  And  not  a  bow- 
shot from  me,  upon  a  stone  and  shaded  by  Judean  palms,  there 
sat  a  woman;  and  I  looked;  and  it  was — Ann!  She  fixed  her 
eyes  upon  me  earnestly;  and  I  said  to  her  at  length:  "So  then  I 
have  found  you  at  last."  I  waited:  but  she  answered  me  not  a 
word.  Her  face  was  the  same  as  when  I  saw  it  last,  and  yet  again 
how  different!    Seventeen  years  ago,  when  the  lamplight  fell 


246  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

upon  her  face,  as  for  the  last  time  I  kissed  her  lips  (lips,  Ann,  that 
to  me  were  not  polluted),  her  eyes  were  streaming  with  tears:  the 
tears  were  now  wiped  away;  she  seemed  more  beautiful  than 
she  was  at  that  time,  but  in  all  other  points  the  same,  and  not 
older.  Her  looks  were  tranquil,  but  with  unusual  solemnity  of 
expression;  and  I  now  gazed  upon  her  with  some  awe;  but  sud- 
denly her  countenance  grew  dim,  and,  turning  to  the  mountains, 
I  perceived  vapours  rolling  between  us;  in  a  moment,  all  had 
vanished;  thick  darkness  came  on;  and,  in  the  twinkling  of  an 
eye,  I  was  far  away  from  mountains,  and  by  lamp-light  in 
Oxford-street,  walking  again  with  Ann — just  as  we  walked 
seventeen  years  before,  when  we  were  both  children. 


GEORGE  BORROW 
1803-1881 

THE  FLAMING  TINMAN 

[From  Lavengro,  the  Scholar,  the  Gypsy,  and  the  Priest  (1851),  an 
autobiography  partly  fictitious. 

The  author,  a  vagrant  scholar  ("Lavengro"  in  the  Rommany,  or 
Gypsy,  language  means  "master  of  tongues")  has  bought  a  horse, 
cart,  and  outfit  from  a  travelling  tinker,  Slingsby  by  name,  who, 
beaten  in  fair  fight  by  his  rival,  "The  Flaming  Tinman,"  had  agreed 
to  give  up  his  trade  and  to  quit  the  roads.] 


Two  mornings  after  the  period  to  which  I  have  brought  the  reader 
in  the  preceding  chapter,  I  sat  by  my  fire  at  the  bottom  of  the 
dingle;  I  had  just  breakfasted,  and  had  finished  the  last  morsel 
of  food  which  I  had  brought  with  me  to  that  solitude. 

"What  shall  I  now  do?"  said  I,  to  myself;  "shall  I  continue 
here,  or  decamp — this  is  a  sad  lonely  spot — perhaps  I  had  better 
quit  it;  but  whither  should  I  go?  the  wide  world  is  before  me,  but 
what  can  I  do  therein?  I  have  been  in  the  world  already  with- 
out much  success.  No,  I  had  better  remain  here;  the  place  is 
lonely,  it  is  true,  but  here  I  am  free  and  independent,  and  can  do 


GEORGE  BORROW  247 

what  I  please;  but  I  can't  remain  here  without  food.  Well,  I 
will  find  my  way  to  the  nearest  town,  lay  in  a  fresh  supply  of 
provision,  and  come  back,  turning  my  back  upon  the  world, 
which  has  turned  its  back  upon  me.  I  don't  see  why  I  should 
not  write  a  little  sometimes;  I  have  pens  and  an  inkhorn,  and 
for  a  writing-desk  I  can  place  the  Bible  on  my  knee.  I  shouldn't 
wonder  if  I  could  write  a  capital  satire  on  the  world  on  the  back 
of  that  Bible;  but  first  of  all  I  must  think  of  supplying  myself 
with  food." 

I  rose  up  from  the  stone  on  which  I  was  seated,  determining  to 
go  to  the  nearest  town,  with  my  little  horse  and  cart,  and  procure 
what  I  wanted — the  nearest  town,  according  to  my  best  calcula- 
tion, lay  about  five  miles  distant;  I  had  no  doubt,  however,  that 
by  using  ordinary  diligence,  I  should  be  back  before  evening. 
In  order  to  go  lighter,  I  determined  to  leave  my  tent  standing  as 
it  was,  and  all  the  things  which  I  had  purchased  of  the  tinker, 
just  as  they  were.  "I  need  not  be  apprehensive  on  their 
account,"  said  I, to  myself;  ''nobody  will  come  here  to  meddle 
with  them — the  great  recommendation  of  this  place  is  its  perfect 
solitude — I  dare  say  that  I  could  live  here  six  months  without 
seeing  a  single  human  visage.  I  will  now  harness  my  little  gry 
and  be  off  to  the  town." 

At  a  whistle  which  I  gave,  the  little  gry,  which  was  feeding  on 
the  bank  near  the  uppermost  part  of  the  dingle,  came  running  to 
me,  for  by  this  time  he  had  become  so  accustomed  to  me,  that  he 
would  obey  my  call,  for  all  the  world  as  if  he  had  been  one  of  the 
canine  species.  "  Now,"  said  I  to  him,  "  we  are  going  to  the  town 
to  buy  bread  for  myself,  and  oats  for  you — I  am  in  a  hurry  to 
be  back;  therefore,  I  pray  you  to  do  your  best,  and  to  draw  me 
and  the  cart  to  the  town  with  all  possible  speed,  and  to  bring  us 
back;  if  you  do  your  best,  I  promise  you  oats  on  your  return. 
You  know  the  meaning  of  oats,  Ambrol?" 

Ambrol  whinnied  as  if  to  let  me  know  that  he  understood  me 
perfectly  well,  as  indeed  he  well  might,  as  I  had  never  once  fed 


248  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

him  during  the  time  he  had  been  in  my  possession  without  saying 
the  word  in  question  to  him.  Now,  Ambrol,  in  the  Gypsy  tongue, 
signifieth  a  pear. 

So  I  caparisoned  Ambrol,  and  then,  going  to  the  cart,  I  re- 
moved two  or  three  things  from  out  it  into  the  tent;  I  then  lifted 
up  the  shafts,  and  was  just  going  to  call  to  the  pony  to  come  and 
be  fastened  to  them,  when  I  thought  I  heard  a  noise. 

I  stood  stock  still  supporting  the  shafts  of  the  little  cart  in  my 
hand,  and  bending  the  right  side  of  my  face  slightly  towards  the 
ground;  but  I  could  hear  nothing;  the  noise  which  I  thought  I 
had  heard  was  not  one  of  those  sounds  which  I  was  accustomed 
to  hear  in  that  solitude,  the  note  of  a  bird,  or  the  rustling  of  a 
bough;  it  was — there  I  heard  it  again,  a  sound  very  much  resem- 
bling the  grating  of  a  wheel  amongst  gravel.  Could  it  proceed 
from  the  road?  Oh  no,  the  road  was  too  far  distant  for  me  to 
hear  the  noise  of  anything  moving  along  it.  Again  I  Ustened, 
and  now  I  distinctly  heard  the  sound  of  wheels,  which  seemed 
to  be  approaching  the  dingle;  nearer  and  nearer  they  drew,  and 
presently  the  sound  of  wheels  was  blended  with  the  murmur  of 
voices.  Anon  I  heard  a  boisterous  shout,  which  seemed  to  pro- 
ceed from  the  entrance  of  the  dingle.  "Here  are  folks  at  hand," 
said  I,  letting  the  shaft  of  the  cart  fall  to  the  ground,  "is  it 
possible  that  they  can  be  coming  here?" 

My  doubts  on  that  point,  if  I  entertained  any,  were  soon  dis- 
pelled; the  wheels,  which  had  ceased  moving  for  a  moment  or 
two,  were  once  again  in  motion,  and  were  now  evidently  moving 
down  the  winding  path  which  led  to  my  retreat.  Leaving  my 
cart,  I  came  forward  and  placed  myself  near  the  entrance  of  the 
open  space,  with  my  eyes  fixed  on  the  path  down  which  my 
unexpected  and  I  may  say  unwelcome  visitors  were  coming. 
Presently  I  heard  a  stamping  or  sliding,  as  if  of  a  horse  in  some 
difficulty;  and  then  a  loud  curse,  and  the  next  moment  appeared 
a  man  and  a  horse  and  cart;  the  former  holding  the  head  of  the 
horse  up  to  prevent  him  from  falling,  of  which  he  was  in  danger, 


GEORGE  BORROW  249 

owing  to  the  precipitous  nature  of 'the  path.  Whilst  thus  occu- 
pied, the  head  of  the  man  was  averted  from  me.  When,  how- 
ever, he  had  reached  the  bottom  of  the  descent,  he  turned  his 
head,  and  perceiving  me,  as  I  stood  bareheaded,  without  either 
coat  or  waistcoat,  about  two  yards  from  him,  he  gave  a  sudden 
start,  so  violent,  that  the  backward  motion  of  his  hand  had 
nearly  flung  the  horse  upon  his  haunches. 

"Why  don't  you  move  forward?"  said  a  voice  from  behind, 
apparently  that  of  a  female,  "you  are  stopping  up  the  way,  and 
we  shall  be  all  down  upon  one  another;"  and  I  saw  the  head  of 
another  horse  overtopping  the  back  of  the  cart. 

"Why  don't  you  move  forward.  Jack?"  said  another  voice, 
also  of  a  female,  yet  higher  up  the  path. 

The  man  stirred  not,  but  remained  staring  at  me  in  the  pos- 
ture which  he  had  assumed  on  first  preceiving  me,  his  body  very 
much  drawn  back,  his  left  foot  far  in  advance  of  his  right,  and 
with  his  right  hand  still  grasping  the  halter  of  the  horse,  which 
gave  way  more  and  more,  till  it  was  clean  down  on  its  haunches. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  said  the  voice  which  I  had  last  heard. 
.  ^'Get  back  with  you,  Belle,  Moll,"  said  the  man,  still  staring 
at  me,  "here's  something  not  over-canny  or  comfortable." 

"What  is  it?"  said  the  same  voice;  "let  me  pass,  Moll,  and  I  '11 
soon  clear  the  way,"  and  I  heard  a  kind  of  rushing  down  the  path. 

"You  need  not  be  afraid,"  said  I,  addressing  myself  to  the 
man,  "I  mean  you  no  harm;  I  am  a  wanderer  like  yourself — 
come  here  to  seek  for  shelter — you  need  not  be  afraid;  I  am 
a  Rome  chabo  by  matriculation — one  of  the  right  sort,  and  no 
mistake — Good  day  to  ye,  brother;  I  bids  ye  welcome." 

The  man  eyed  me  suspiciously  for  a  moment — then,  turning 
to  his  horse  with  a  loud  curse,  he  pulled  him  up  from  his  haunches 
and  led  him  and  the  cart  farther  down  to  one  side  of  the  dingle, 
muttering  as  he  passed  me,  "Afraid.    Hm!" 

I  do  not  remember  ever  to  have  seen  a  more  ruffianly-looking 
fellow;  he  was  about  six  feet  high^  with  m  immensely  athletic 


250  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

frame;  his  face  was  black  and  bluff,  and  sported  an  immense 
pair  of  whiskers,  but  with  here  and  there  a  grey  hair,  for  his  age 
could  not  be  much  under  fifty.  He  wore  a  faded  blue  frock  coat, 
corduroys,  and  highlows — on  his  black  head  was  a  kind  of  red 
nightcap,  round  his  bull  neck  a  Barcelona  handkerchief — I  did 
not  like  the  look  of  the  man  at  all. 

''Afraid,"  growled  the  fellow,  proceeding  to  unharness  his 
horse;  "that  was  the  word,  I  think." 

But  other  figures  were  now  already  upon  the  scene.  Dashing 
past  the  other  horse  and  cart,  which  by  this  time  had  reached 
the  bottom  of  the  pass,  appeared  an  exceedingly  tall  w^oman,  or 
rather  girl,  for  she  could  scarcely  have  been  above  eighteen;  she 
was  dressed  in  a  tight  bodice  and  a  blue  stuff  gown;  hat,  bonnet, 
or  cap  she  had  none,  and  her  hair,  which  was  flaxen,  hung  down 
on  her  shoulders  unconfined;  her  complexion  was  fair,  and  her 
features  handsome,  with  a  determined  but  open  expression — she 
was  followed  by  another  female,  about  forty,  stout  and  vulgar- 
looking,  at  whom  I  scarcely  glanced,  my  whole  attention  being 
absorbed  by  the  tall  girl. 

"What's  the  matter,  Jack?"  said  the  latter,  looking  at  the 
man. 

"Only  afraid,  that's  all,"  said  the  man,  still  proceeding  with 
his  work. 

"Afraid  at  what — at  that  lad?  why,  he  looks  like  a  ghost — I 
would  engage  to  thrash  him  with  one  hand." 

"You  might  beat  me  with  no  hands  at  all,"  said  I,  "fair  dam- 
sel, only  by  looking  at  me — I  never  saw  such  a  face  and  figure, 
both  regal — why,  you  look  Hke  Ingeborg,  Queen  of  Norway;  she 
had  twelve  brothers,  you  know,  and  could  lick  them  all,  though 
they  were  heroes — 

On  Dovrefeld  in  Norway, 
Were  once  together  seen. 
The  twelve  heroic  brothers 
Of  Ingeborg  the  queen. 


GEORGE  BORROW  251 

"None  of  your  chaffing,  young  fellow,"  said  the  tall  girl,  "or  I 
will  give  you  what  shall  make  you  wipe  your  face;  be  civil,  or 
you  will  rue  it." 

"Well,  perhaps  I  was  a  peg  too  high,"  said  I,  "I  ask  your 
pardon — here 's  something  a  bit  lower — 

'As  I  was  jawing  to  the  gav  yeck  diwus 
I  met  on  the  drom  miro  Rommany  chi ' 

"None  of  your  Rommany  chies,  young  fellow,"  said  the  tall 
girl,  looking  more  menacingly  than  before,  and  clenching  her 
fist,  "you  had  better  be  civil,  I  am  none  of  your  chies;  and, 
though  I  keep  company  with  gypsies,  or,  to  speak  more  proper, 
half  and  halfs,  I  would  have  you  to  know  that  I  come  of  Chris- 
tian blood  and  parents,  and  was -born  in  the  great  house  of 
Long  Melford." 

"I  have  no  doubt,"  said  I,  "that  it  was  a  great  house; 
judging  from  your  size,  I  should  'nt  wonder  if  you  were  born 
in  a  church." 

"  Stay,  Belle,"  said  the  man,  putting  himself  before  the  young 
virago,  who  was  about  to  rush  upon  me, "  my  turn  is  first" — then, 
advancing  to  me  in  a  menacing  attitude,  he  said,  with  a  look  of 
deep  mahgnity,  "'Afraid'  was  the  word,  wasn't  it?" 

"It  was,"  said  I,  "but  I  think  I  wronged  you;  I  should  have 
said,  aghast;  you  exhibited  every  symptom  of  one  labouring 
under  uncontrollable  fear." 

The  fellow  stared  at  me  with  a  look  of  stupid  ferocity,  and 
appeared  to  be  hesitating  whether  to  strike  or  not:  ere  he  could 
make  up  his  mind,  the  tall  girl  stepped  forward,  crying,  "He  's 
chaffing  ;  let  me  at  him";  and,  before  I  could  put  myself  on  my 
guard,  she  struck  me  a  blow  on  the  face  which  had  nearly  brought 
me  to  the  ground. 

"Enough,"  said  I,  putting  my  hand  to  my  cheek;  "you  have 
now  performed  your  promise,  and  made  me  wipe  my  face:  now 
be  pacified,  and  tell  me  fairly  the  ground  of  this  quarrel." 


252  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

"Grounds!"  said  the  fellow;  "didn't  you  say  I  was  afraid; 
and  if  you  hadn't,  who  gave  you  leave  to  camp  on  my  ground?" 

"Is  it  your  ground?"  said  I. 

"A  pretty  question,"  said  the  fellow;  "as  if  all  the  world 
did  n't  know  that.    Do  you  know  who  I  am?" 

"I  guess  I  do,"  said  I;  "unless  I  am  much  mistaken,  you  are 
he  whom  folks  call  the  'Flaming  Tinman.'  To  tell  you  the 
truth,  I  'm  glad  we  have  met,  for  I  wished  to  see  you.  These  are 
your  two  wives,  I  suppose;  I  greet  them.  There's  no  harm 
done — there 's  room  enough  here  for  all  of  us — we  shall  soon 
be  good  friends,  I  dare  say;  and  when  we  are  a  Httle  better 
acquainted,  I  '11  tell  you  my  history." 

"Well,  if  that  does  n't  beat  all,"  said  the  fellow. 

"I  don't  think  he's  chafl&ng  now,"  said  the  girl,  whose  anger 
seemed  to  have  subsided  on  a  sudden;  "the  young  man  speaks 
civil  enough." 

"Civil,"  said  the  fellow,  with  an  oath;  "but  that's  just  like 
you;  with  you  it  is  a  blow,  and  all  over.  Civil!  I  suppose  you 
would  have  him  stay  here,  and  get  into  all  my  secrets,  and  hear 
all  I  may  have  to  say  to  my  two  morts." 

"Two  morts,"  said  the  girl,  kindUng  up,  "where  are  they? 
Speak  for  one,  and  no  more.  I  am  no  mort  of  yours,  whatever 
some  one  else  may  be.  I  tell  you  one  thing.  Black  John,  or 
Anselo,  for  t'other  an't  your  name,  the  same  thing  I  told  the 
young  man  here,  be  civil,  or  you  will  rue  it." 

The  fellow  looked  at  the  girl  furiously,  but  his  glance  soon 
quailed  before  hers;  he  withdrew  his  eyes,  and  cast  them  on 
my  little  horse,  which  was  feeding  amongst  the  trees.  "What's 
this?"  said  he,  rushing  forward  and  seizing  the  animal.  "Why, 
as  I  am  alive,  this  is  the  horse  of  that  mumping  villain  SHngsby." 

"It's  his  no  longer;  I  bought  it  and  paid  for  it." 

"It's  mine  now,"  said  the  fellow;  "I  swore  I  would  seize  it 
the  next  time  I  found  it  on  my  beat;  ay,  and  beat  the  master 
too." 


GEORGE  BORROW  253 

"I  am  not  Slingsby." 

''All's  one  for  that." 

"You  don't  say  you  will  beat  me?" 

''Afraid  was  the  word." 

"I'm  sick  and  feeble." 

"Hold  up  your  fists." 

"Won't  the  horse  satisfy  you?" 

"Horse  nor  bellows  either." 

"No  mercy,  then." 

"Here's  at  you." 

"  Mind  your  eyes,  Jack.  There,  you  Ve  got  it.  I  thought  so," 
shouted  the  girl,  as  the  fellow  staggered  back  from  a  sharp  blow 
in  the  eye.    "I  thought  he  was  chaffing  at  you  all  along." 

"Never  mind,  Anselo.  You  know  what  to  do — go  in,"  said 
the  vulgar  woman,  who  had  hitherto  not  spoken  a  word,  but 
who  now  came  forward  with  all  the  look  of  a  fury;  "go  in 
apopli;  you'll  smash  ten  like  he." 

The  Flaming  Tinman  took  her  advice,  and  came  in  bent  on 
smashing,  but  stopped  short  on  receiving  a  left-handed  blow  on 
the  nose. 

"You'll  never  beat  the  Flaming  Tinman  in  that  way,"  said 
the  girl,  looking  at  me  doubtfully. 

And  so  I  began  to  think  myself,  when,  in  the  twinkling  of 
an  eye,  the  Flaming  Tinman,  disengaging  himself  of  his  frock- 
coat,  and  dashing  off  his  red  night-cap,  came  rushing  in  more 
desperately  than  ever.  To  a  flush  hit  which  he  received  in 
the  mouth  he  paid  as  little  attention  as  a  wild  bull  would  have 
done;  in  a  moment  his  arms  were  around  me,  and  in  another,  he 
had  hurled  me  down,  falling  heavily  upon  me.  The  fellow's 
strength  appeared  to  be  tremendous. 

"Pay  him  off  now,"  said  the  vulgar  woman.  The  Flaming 
Tinman  made  no  reply,  but  planting  his  knee  on  my  breast, 
seized  my  throat  with  two  huge  horny  hands.  I  gave  myself  up 
for  dead,  and  probably  should  have  been  so  in  another  minute 


254  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

but  for  the  tall  girl,  who  caught  hold  of  the  handkerchief  which 
the  fellow  wore  round  his  neck  with  a  grasp  nearly  as  powerful 
as  that  with  which  he  pressed  my  throat. 

"Do  you  call  that  fair  play?"  said  she. 

"Hands  off,  Belle,"  said  the  other  woman;  "do  you  call  it 
fair  play  to  interfere?  hands  off,  or  I'll  be  down  upon  you 
myself." 

But  Belle  paid  no  heed  to  the  injunction,  and  tugged  so  hard 
at  the  handkerchief,  that  the  Flaming  Tinman  was  nearly 
throttled;  suddenly  relinquishing  his  hold  of  me,  he  started  on 
his  feet,  and  aimed  a  blow  at  my  fair  preserver,  who  avoided  it, 
but  said  coolly — 

"Finish  t'other  business  first,  and  then  I  'm  your  woman  when- 
ever you  like;  but  finish  it  fairly — no  foul  play  when  I'm  by 
— I  '11  be  the  boy's  second,  and  Moll  can  pick  up  you  when  he 
happens  to  knock  you  down." 

The  battle  during  the  next  ten  minutes  raged  with  consider- 
able fury,  but  it  so  happened  that  during  this  time  I  was  never 
able  to  knock  the  Flaming  Tinman  down,  but  on  the  contrary 
received  six  knock-down  blows  myself.  "I  can  never  stand 
this,"  said  I,  as  I  sat  on  the  knee  of  Belle,  "I  am  afraid  I  must 
give  in;  the  Flaming  Tinman  hits  very  hard,"  and  I  spat  out  a 
mouthful  of  blood. 

"Sure  enough  you'll  never  beat  the  Flaming  Tinman  in  the 
way  you  fight — it's  of  no  use  flipping  at  the  Flaming  Tinman 
with  your  left  hand;  why  don't  you  use  your  right?" 

"Because  I'm  not  handy  with  it,"  said  I;  and  then  getting 
up,  I  once  more  confronted  the  Flaming  Tinman,  and  struck 
him  six  blows  for  his  one,  but  they  were  all  left-handed  blows, 
and  the  blow  which  the  Flaming  Tinman  gave  me  knocked  me 
off  my  legs. 

"Now,  will  you  use  Long  Melford?"  said  Belle,  picking  me  up. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  Long  Melford,"  said  I, 
gasping  for  breath. 


GEORGE  BORROW  255 

''Why,  this  long  right  of  yours,"  said  Belle,  feeling  my 
right  arm — "if  you  do,  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  you  yet  stand 
a  chance." 

And  now  the  Flaming  Tinman  was  once  more  ready,  much 
more  ready  than  myself.  I,  however,  rose  from  my  second's 
knee  as  well  as  my  weakness  would  permit  me;  on  he  came,  strik- 
ing left  and  right,  appearing  almost  as  fresh  as  to  wind  and  spirit 
as  when  he  first  commenced  the  combat,  though  his  eyes  were 
considerably  swelled,  and  his  nether  lip  was  cut  in  two;  on  he 
came,  striking  left  and  right,  and  I  did  not  like  his  blows  at  all, 
or  even  the  wind  of  them,  which  was  anything  but  agreeable,  and 
I  gave  way  before  him.  At  last  he  aimed  a  blow,  which,  had  it 
taken  full  effect,  would  doubtless  have  ended  the  battle,  but 
owing  to  his  slipping,  the  fist  only  grazed  my  left  shoulder,  and 
came  with  terrific  force  against  a  tree,  close  to  which  I  had  been 
driven;  before  the  Tinman  could  recover  himself,  I  collected  all 
my  strength,  and  struck  him  beneath  the  ear,  and  then  fell  to  the 
ground  completely  exhausted,  and  it  so  happened  that  the  blow 
which  I  struck  the  tinker  beneath  the  ear  was  a  right-handed 
blow. 

"Hurrah  for  Long  Melford!"  I  heard  Belle  exclaim;  "there  is 
nothing  Uke  Long  Melford  for  shortness  all  the  world  over." 

At  these  words,  I  turned  round  my  head  as  I  lay,  and  perceived 
the  Flaming  Tinman  stretched  upon  the  ground  apparently 
senseless.  "He  is  dead,"  said  the  vulgar  woman,  as  she  vainly 
endeavoured  to  raise  him  up;  "  he  is  dead;  the  best  man  in  all  the 
north  country,  killed  in  this  fashion,  by  a  boy."  Alarmed  at  these 
words,  I  made  shift  to  get  on  my  feet;  and,  with  the  assistance 
of  the  woman,  placed  my  fallen  adversary  in  a  sitting  posture. 
I  put  my  hand  to  his  heart,  and  felt  a  slight  pulsation — "He's 
not  dead,"  said  I,  "only  stunned;  if  he  were  let  blood,  he 
would  recover  presently."  I  produced  a  penknife  which  I  had 
in  my  pocket,  and,  baring  the  arm  of  the  Tinman,  was  about  to 
make  the  necessary  incision,  when  the  woman  gave  me  a  violent 


256  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

blow,  and,  pushing  me  aside,  exclaimed,  "I  '11  tear  the  eyes  out 
of  your  head,  if  you  offer  to  touch  him.  Do  you  want  to 
complete  your  work,  and  murder  him  outright,  now  he's 
asleep?  you  have  had  enough  of  his  blood  already."  "You  are 
mad,"  said  I,  "I  only  seek  to  do  him  service.  Well,  if  you 
won't  let  him  be  blooded,  fetch  some  water  and  fling  it  into  his 
face;  you  know  where  the  pit  is." 

''A  pretty  manoeuvre,"  said  the  woman;  "leave  my  husband 
in  the  hands  of  you  and  that  hmmer,  who  has  never  been  true 
to  us;  I  should  find  him  strangled  or  his  throat  cut  when  I  came 
back."  "Do  you  go,"  said  I,  to  the  tall  girl,  "take  the  can  and 
fetch  some  water  from  the  pit."  "You  had  better  go  yourself," 
said  the  girl,  wiping  a  tear  as  she  looked  on  the  yet  senseless  form 
of  the  tinker;  "you  had  better  go  yourself,  if  you  think  water 
will  do  him  good."  I  had  by  this  time  somewhat  recovered  my 
exhausted  powers,  and,  taking  the  can,  I  bent  my  steps  as  fast 
as  I  could  to  the  pit;  arriving  there,  I  lay  down  on  the  brink, 
took  a  long  draught,  and  then  plunged  my  head  into  the  water; 
after  which  I  filled  the  can,  and  bent  my  way  back  to  the  dingle. 
Before  I  could  reach  the  path  which  led  down  into  its  depths,  I 
had  to  pass  some  way  along  its  side;  I  had  arrived  at  a  part  im- 
mediately over  the  scene  of  the  last  encounter,  where  the  bank, 
overgrown  with  trees,  sloped  precipitously  down.  Here  I  heard 
a  loud  sound  of  voices  in  the  dingle;  I  stopped,  and  laying  hold 
of  a  tree,  leaned  over  the  bank  and  listened. 

The  two  women  appeared  to  be  in  hot  dispute  in  the  dingle. 
"It  was  all  owing  to  you,  you  limmer,"  said  the  vulgar  woman 
to  the  other;  "had  you  not  interfered,  the  old  man  would  soon 
have  settled  the  boy."  "I  'm  for  fair  play  and  Long  Melford," 
said  the  other.  "If  your  old  man,  as  you  call  him,  could  have 
settled  the  boy  fairly,  he  might,  for  all  I  should  have  cared,  but 
no  foul  work  for  me;  and  as  for  sticking  the  boy  with  our  gulleys 
when  he  comes  back,  as  you  proposed,  I  am  not  so  fond  of  your 
old  man  or  you  that  I  should  oblige  you  in  it,  to  my  soul's 


GEORGE  BORROW  257 

destruction."  "Hold  your  tongue,  or  I'll — ";  I  listened  no 
farther,  but  hastened  as  fast  as  I  could  to  the  dingle. 

My  adversary  had  just  begun  to  show  signs  of  animation;  the 
vulgar  woman  was  still  supporting  him,  and  occasionally  cast 
glances  of  anger  at  the  tall  girl  who  was  walking  slowly  up  and 
down.  I  lost  no  time  in  dashing  the  greater  part  of  the  water 
into  the  Tinman's  face,  whereupon  he  sneezed,  moved  his  hands, 
and  presently  looked  round  him.  At  first  his  looks  were  dull 
and  heavy,  and  without  any  intelligence  at  all;  he  soon,  however, 
began  to  recollect  himself,  and  to  be  conscious  of  his  situation; 
he  cast  a  scowling  glance  at  me,  then  one  of  the  deepest  maUgnity 
at  the  tall  girl,  who  was  still*  walking  about  without  taking  much 
notice  of  what  was  going  forward.  At  last  he  looked  at  his  right 
hand,  which  had  evidently  suffered  from  the  blow  against  the 
tree,  and  a  half-stifled  curse  escaped  his  lips.  The  vulgar  woman 
now  said  something  to  him  in  a  low  tone,  whereupon  he  looked 
at  her  for  a  moment,  and  then  got  upon  his  legs.  Again  the 
vulgar  woman  said  something  to  him;'  her  looks  were  furious, 
and  she  appeared  to  be  urging  him  on  to  attempt  something.  I 
observed  that  she  had  a  clasped  knife  in  her  hand.  The  fellow 
remained  standing  for  some  time  as  if  hesitating  what  to  do;  at 
last  he  looked  at  his  hand,  and,  shaking  his  head,  said  something 
to  the  woman  which  I  did  not  understand. 

The  tall  girl,  however,  appeared  to  overhear  him,  and,  prob- 
ably repeating  his  words,  said,  "No,  it  won't  do;  you  are  right 
there,  and  now  hear  what  I  have  to  say, — let  bygones  be  bygones, 
and  let  us  all  shake  hands,  and  camp  here,  as  the  young  man 
was  saying  just  now."  The  man  looked  at  her,  and  then,  with- 
out any  reply,  went  to  his  horse,  which  was  lying  down  among 
the  trees,  and  kicking  it  up,  led  it  to  the  cart,  to  which  he 
forthwith  began  to  harness  it.  The  other  cart  and  horse  had 
remained  standing  motionless  during  the  whole  affair  which  I 
have  been  recounting,  at  the  bottom  of  the  pass.  The  woman 
now  took  the  horse  by  the  head,  and  leading  it  with  the  cart 
17 


258  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

into  the  open  part  of  the  dingle  turned  both  round,  and  then  led 
them  back,  till  the  horse  and  cart  had  mounted  a  little  way 
up  the  ascent;  she  then  stood  still  and  appeared  to  be  expecting 
the  man.  During  this  proceeding  Belle  had  stood  looking  on 
without  saying  anything;  at  last,  perceiving  that  the  man  had 
harnessed  his  horse  to  the  other  cart,  and  that  both  he  and  the 
woman  were  about  to  take  their  departure,  she  said,  "You  are 
not  going,  are  you?"  Receiving  no  answer,  she  continued:  "I 
tell  you  what,  both  of  you,  Black  John,  and  you  Moll,  his  mort, 
this  is  not  treating  me  over  civilly, —  however,  I  am  ready  to 
put  up  with  it,  and  go  with  you  if  you  like,  for  I  bear  no  malice. 
I  'm  sorry  for  what  has  happened,  but  you  have  only  yourselves 
to  thank  for  it.  Now,  shall  I  go  with  you,  only  tell  me?"  The 
man  made  no  manner  of  reply,  but  flogged  his  horse.  The  woman, 
however,  whose  passions  were  probably  under  less  control, 
repUed,  with  a  screeching  tone,  "Stay  where  you  are,  you  jade; 
and  may  the  curse  of  Judas  cling  to  you, — stay  with  the  bit  of  a 
mullo  whom  you  helped,  and  my  only  hope  is  that  he  may  gulley 

you  before  he  comes  to  be Have  you  with  us,  indeed! 

after  what 's  past;  no,  nor  nothing  belonging  to  you.  Fetch 
down  your  mailla  go-cart  and  live  here  with  your  chabo." 
She  then  whipped  on  the  horse,  and  ascended  the  pass,  followed 
by  the  man. 

The  carts  were  light,  and  they  were  not  long  in  ascending  the 
winding  path.  I  followed  to  see  that  they  took  their  departure. 
Arriving  at  the  top,  I  found  near  the  entrance  a  small  donkey- 
cart,  which  I  concluded  belonged  to  the  girl.  The  tinker  and  his 
mort  were  already  at  some  distance;  I  stood  looking  after  them 
for  some  little  time,  then  taking  the  donkey  by  the  reins  I  led  it 
with  the  cart  to  the  bottom  of  the  dingle:  Arrived  there,  I 
foimd  Belle  seated  on  the  stone  by  the  fireplace.  Her  hair  was 
all  dishevelled,  and  she  was  in  tears. 

"They  were  bad  people,"  she  said,  "and  I  did  not  like  them, 
but  they  were  my  only  acquaintance  in  the  wide  world." 


WILLIAM  HAZLITT  259 

WILLIAM  HAZLITT 

1778-1830 

THE  FIGHT 

[From  Literary  Remains,  1836;  originally  published  in  the  New 
Monthly  Magazine,  February,  1822. 

On  the  eleventh  of  December,  182 1 ,  the  author,  a  periodical  essayist, 
turned  reporter,  had  gone  down  from  London  by  the  Bath  mail  coach 
to  Newbury,  in  order  to  witness  a  prize  fight  between  Hickman  (the 
Gasman)  and  Bill  Neate.  In  the  following  December  Hickman  was 
killed  by  faUing  from  a  chaise.] 

Reader,  have  you  ever  seen  a  fight?  If  not,  you  have  a  pleas- 
ure to  come,  at  least  if  it  is  a  fight  like  that  between  the  Gasman 
and  Bill  Neate.  The  crowd  was  very  great  when  we  arrived  on 
the  spot;  open  carriages  were  conung  up,  with  streamers  fly- 
ing and  music  playing,  and  the  country-people  were  pouring  in 
over  hedge  and  ditch  in  all  directions,  to  see  their  hero  beat 
or  be  beaten. 

The  odds  were  still  on  Gas,  but  only  about  five  to  four.  Gully 
had  been  down  to  try  Neate,  and  had  backed  him  considerably, 
which  was  a  damper  to  the  sanguine  confidence  of  the  adverse 
party.  About  £200,000  were  pending.  Gas  says  he  has  lost 
£3000,  which  were  promised  him  by  different  gentlemen  if  he 
had  won.  He  had  presumed  too  much  on  himself,  which  had 
made  others  presume  on  him.  This  spirited  and  formidable 
young  fellow  seems  to  have  taken  for  his  motto,  the  old  maxim, 
that  "there  are  three  things  necessary  to  success  in  life — Impu- 
dence! Impudence!  Impudence!'^  It  is  so  in  matters  of  opinion, 
but  not  in  the  Fancy,  which  is  the  most  practical  of  all  things, 
though  even  here  confidence  is  half  the  battle,  but  only  half. 
Our  friend  had  vapoured  and  swaggered  too  much,  as  if  he 
wanted  to  grin  and  bully  his  adversary  out  of  the  fight.  "Alas! 
the  Bristol  man  was  not  so  tamed!" — "This  is  the  gravedigger" 


26o  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

(would  Tom  Hickman  exclaim  in  the  moments  of  intoxication 
from  gin  and  success,  showing  his  tremendous  right  hand), 
"this  will  send  many  of  them  to  their  long  homes;  I  have  n't 
done  with  them  yet!" 

Why  should  he — though  he  had  licked  four  of  the  best  men 
within  the  hour — why  should  he  threaten  to  inflict  dishonourable 
chastisement  on  my  old  master  Richmond,  a  veteran  going  oS. 
the  stage,  and  who  has  borne  his  sable  honours  meekly?  Mag- 
nanimity, my  dear  Tom,  and  bravery,  should  be  inseparable. 
Or  why  should  he  go  up  to  his  antagonist,  the  first  time  he  ever 
saw  him  at  the  Fives  Court,  and  measuring  him  from  head  to 
foot  with  a  glance  of  contempt,  as  Achilles  surveyed  Hector,  say 
to  him,  "What, are  you  Bill  Neate?  I  '11  knock  more  blood  out 
of  that  great  carcase  of  thine,  this  day  fortnight,  than  you  ever 
knock'd  out  of  a  bullock's !"  It  was  not  manly — 't  was  not  fighter- 
like. If  he  was  sure  of  the  victory  (as  he  was  not),  the  less 
said  about  it  the  better.  Modesty  should  accompany  the  Fancy 
as  its  shadow.  The  best  men  were  always  the  best  behaved. 
Jem  Belcher,  the  Game  Chicken  (before  whom  the  Gasman  could 
not  have  lived)  wer^  civil,  silent  men.  So  is  Cribb;  so  is  Tom 
Belcher,  the  most  elegant  of  sparrers,  and  not  a  man  for  every 
one  to  take  by  the  nose.  I  enlarged  on  this  topic  in  the  mail 
(while  Turtle  was  asleep),  and  said  very  wisely  (as  I  thought), 
that  impertinence  was  a  part  of  no  profession.  A  boxer  was 
bound  to  beat  his  man,  but  not  to  thrust  his  fist,  either  actually 
or  by  implication,  in  every  one's  face.  Even  a  highwayman,  in 
the  way  of  trade,  may  blow  out  your  brains,  but  if  he  uses  foul 
language  at  the  same  time,  I  should  say  he  was  no  gentleman. 
A  boxer,  I  would  infer,  need  not  be  a  blackguard  or  a  coxcomb, 
more  than  another.  Perhaps  I  press  this  point  too  much  on  a 
fallen  man — Mr.  Thomas  Hickman  has  by  this  time  learnt  that 
first  of  all  lessons,  "That  man  was  made  to  mourn."  He  has 
lost  nothing  by  the  late  fight  but  his  presumption;  and  that 
every  man  may  do  as  well  without! 


WILLIAM  HAZLITT  261 

By  an  over  display  of  this  quality,  however,  the  public  had 
been  prejudiced  against  him,  and  the  knowing  ones  were  taken 
in.  Few  but  those  who  had  bet  on  him  wished  Gas  to  win. 
With  my  own  prepossessions  on  the  subject,  the  result  of  the 
nth  of  December  appeared  to  me  as  fine  a  piece  of  poetical 
justice  as  I  had  ever  witnessed.  The  difference  of  weight  be- 
tween the  two  combatants  (14  stones  to  12)  was  nothing  to  the 
sporting  men.  Great,  heavy,  clumsy,  long-armed  Bill  Neate 
kicked  the  beam  in  the  scale  of  the  Gasman's  vanity.  The  ama- 
teurs were  frightened  at  his  big  words,  and  thought  they  would 
make  up  for  the  difference  of  six  feet  and  five  feet  nine.  Truly, 
the  Fancy  are  not  men  of  imagination.  They  judge  of  what  has 
been,  and  cannot  conceive  of  anything  that  is  to  be.  The  Gas- 
man had  won  hitherto;  therefore  he  must  beat  a  man  half  as 
big  again  as  himself — and  that  to  a  certainty.  Besides,  there 
are  as  many  feuds,  factions,  prejudices,  pedantic  notions  in  the 
Fancy  as  in  the  state  or  in  the  schools.  Mr.  Gully  is  almost  the 
only  cool,  sensible  man  among  them,  who  exercises  an  unbiassed 
discretion,  and  is  not  a  slave  to  his  passions  in  these  matters. 

But  enough  of  reflections,  and  to  our  tale.  The  day,  as  I  have 
said,  was  fine  for  a  December  morning.  The  grass  was  wet,  and 
the  ground  miry,  and  ploughed  up  with  multitudinous  feet, 
except  that,  within  the  ring  itself,  there  was  a  spot  of  virgin- 
green,  closed  in  and  unprofaned  by  vulgar  tread,  that  shone 
with  dazzHng  brightness  in  the  mid-day  sun.  For  it  was  now 
noon,  and  we  had  an  hour  to  wait.  This  is  the  trying  time.  It  is 
then  the  heart  sickens,  as  you  think  what  the  two  champions  are 
about,  and  how  short  a  time  will  determine  their  fate.  After 
the  first  blow  is  struck,  there  is  no  opportunity  for  nervous 
apprehensions;  you  are  swallowed  up  in  the  immediate  interest 
of  the  scene — but 

Between  the  acting  of  a  dreadful  thing 
And  the  first  motion,  all  the  interim  is 
Like  a  phantasma,  or  a  hideous  dream. 


262  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

I  found  it  so  as  I  felt  the  sun's  rays  clinging  to  my  back, 
and  saw  the  white  wintry  clouds  sink  below  the  verge  of  the 
horizon.    "So,"    I  thought,    "my  fairest    hopes   have   faded 

*from  my  sight! — so  will  the  Gasman's  glory,  or  that  of  his 
adversary,  vanish  in  an  hour."  The  swells  were  parading  in 
their  white  box-coats,  the  outer  ring  was  cleared  with  some 
bruises  on  the  heads  and  shins  of  the  rustic  assembly  (for 
the  cockneys  had  been  distanced  by  the  sixty-six  miles);  the 
time  drew  near. 

I  had  got  a  good  stand;  a  bustle,  a  buzz,  ran  through  the 
crowd;  and  from  the  opposite  side  entered  Neate,  between  his 
second  and  bottle-holder.  He  rolled  along,  swathed  in  his  loose 
greatcoat,  his  knock-knees  bending  under  his  huge  bulk;  and, 
with  a  modest,  cheerful  air,  threw  his  hat  into  the  ring.  He 
then  just  looked  round,  and  begun  quietly  to  undress;  when  from 
the  other  side  there  was  a  similar  rush  and  an  opening  made, 
and  the  Gasman  came  forward  with  a  conscious  air  of  anticipated 
triumph,  too  much  Hke  the  cock-of-the-walk.  He  strutted  about 
more  than  became  a  hero,  sucked  oranges  with  a  supercilious  air, 
and  threw  away  the  skin  with  a  toss  of  his  head,  and  went  up  and 
looked  at  Neate,  which  was  an  act  of  supererogation.  The  only 
sensible  thing  he  did  was,  as  he  strode  away  from  the  modern 
Ajax,  to  fling  out  his  arms,  as  if  he  wanted  to  try  whether  they 
would  do  their  work  that  day.  By  this  time  they  had  stripped, 
and  presented  a  strong  contrast  in  appearance.  If  Neate  was 
like  Ajax,  "with  Atlantean  shoulders,  fit  to  bear"  the  pugilistic 

,  reputation  of  all  Bristol,  Hickman  might  be  compared  toDiomed, 
Kght,  vigorous,  elastic,  and  his  back  ghstened  in  the  sun,  as 
he  moved  about,  like  a  panther's  hide.    There  was  now  a  dead 

.  pause — attention  was  awe-struck.  Who  at  that  moment,  big 
with  a  great  event,  did  not  draw  his  breath  short — did  not  feel 
his  heart  throb?   All  was  ready.    They  tossed  up  for  the  sun, 

»  and  the  Gasman  won.    They  were  led  up  to  the  scratch-^^laook 

^  hands,  and  went  at  it. 


WILLIAM  HAZLITT  263 

In  the  first  round  every  one  thought  it  was  all  over.  After 
making  play  a  short  time,  the  Gasman  flew  at  his  adversary  Uke 
a  tiger,  struck  five  blows  in  as  many  seconds,  three  first,  and 
then  following  him  as  he  staggered  back,  two  more,  right  and 
left,  and  down  he  fell,  a  mighty  ruin.  There  was  a  shout,  and  I 
said,  "There  is  no  standing  this."  Neate  seemed  like  a  lifeless 
lump  of  flesh  and  bone,  round  which  the  Gasman's  blows  played 
with  the  rapidity  of  electricity  or  lightning,  and  you  imagined  he 
would  only  be  Hfted  up  to  be  knocked  down  again.  It  was  as  if 
Hickman  held  a  sword  or  a  fire  in  that  right  hand  of  his,  and 
directed  it  against  an  unarmed  body.  They  met  again,  and 
Neate  seemed,  not  cowed,  but  particularly  cautious.  I  saw  his 
teeth  clenched  together  and  his  brows  knit  close  against  the  sun. 
He  held  out  both  his  arms  at  full  length  straight  before  him,  like 
two  sledge  hammers,  and  raised  his  left  an  inch  or  two  higher. 
The  Gasman  could  not  get  over  this  guard — they  struck  mutu- 
ally and  fell,  but  without  advantage  on  either  side.  It  was  the 
same  in  the  next  round;  but  the  balance  of  power  was  thus 
restored — the  fate  of  the  battle  was  suspended.  No  one  could  tell 
how  it  would  end.  This  was  the  only  moment  in  which  opinion 
was  divided;  for,  in  the  next,  the  Gasman  aiming  a  mortal  blow 
at  his  adversary's  neck,  with  his  right  hand,  and  faiHng  from 
the  length  he  had  to  reach,  the  other  returned  it  with  his  left'at 
iall  swing,  planted  a  tremendous  blow  on  his  cheek-bone  and 
eyebrow,  and  made  a  red  ruin  of  that  side  of  his  face.  The  Gas- 
man went  down,  and  there  was  another  shout — a  roar  of  triumph 
as  the  waves  of  fortune  rolled  tumultuously  from  side  to  side. 

This  was  a  settler.  Hickman  got  up,  and  "grinned  horrible  a 
ghastly  smile,"  yet  he  was  evidently  dashed  in  his  opinion  of 
himself;  it  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  been  so  punished;  all 
one  side  of  his  face  was  perfect  scarlet,  and  his  right  eye  was 
closed  in  dingy  blackness,  as  he  advanced  to  the  fight,  less  con- 
fident, but  still  determined.  After  one  or  two  rounds,  not  re- 
ceiving another  such  remembrancer,  he  rallied  and  went  at  it 


264  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

with  his  former  impetuosity.  But  in  vain.  His  strength  had 
been  weakened — his  blows  could  not  tell  at  such  a  distance — he 
was  obUged  to  fling  himself  at  his  adversary,  and  could  not  strike 
from  his  feet;  and  almost  as  regularly  as  he  flew  at  him  with  his 
right  hand,  Neate  warded  the  blow,  or  drew  back  out  of  its 
reach,  and  felled  him  with  the  return  of  his  left.  There  was 
httle  cautious  sparring — no  half-hits — no  tapping  and  trifling, 
none  of  the  petit-maitreship  of  the  art — they  were  almost  all 
knock-down  blows: — the  fight  was  a  good  stand-up  fight. 

The  wonder  was  the  half -minute  time.  If  there  had  been  a 
minute  or  more  allowed  between  each  round,  it  would  have  been 
intelligible  how  they  should  by  degrees  recover  strength  and  reso- 
lution; but  to  see  two  men  smashed  to  the  ground,  smeared  with 
gore,  stunned,  senseless,  the  breath  beaten  out  of  their  bodies; 
and  then,  before  you  recover  from  the  shock,  to  see  them  rise  up 
with  new  strength  and  courage,  stand  ready  to  inflict  or  receive 
mortal  offence,  and  rush  upon  each  other  ''like  two  clouds  over 
the  Caspian" — this  is  the  most  astonishing  thing  of  all: — this  is 
the  high  and  heroic  state  of  man! 

From  this  time  forward  the  event  became  more  certain  every 
round;  and  about  the  twelfth  it  seemed  as  if  it  must  have  been 
over.  Hickman  generally  stood  with  his  back  to  me;  but  in  the 
scuffle,  he  had  changed  positions,  and  Neate  just  then  made  a 
tremendous  lunge  at  him,  and  hit  him  full  in  the  face.  It  was 
doubtful  whether  he  would  fall  backwards  or  forwards;  he  hung 
suspended  for  a  minute  or  two,  and  then  fell  back,  throwing  his 
hands  in  the  air,  and  with  his  face  Hfted  up  to  the  sky.  I  never 
saw  anything  more  terrific  than  his  aspect  just  before  he  fell. 
All  traces  of  life,  of  natural  expression,  were  gone  from  him. 
His  face  was  Uke  a  human  skull,  a  death's  head  spouting  blood. 
The  eyes  were  filled  with  blood,  the  nose  streamed  with  blood,  the 
mouth  gaped  blood.  He  was  not  like  an  actual  man,  but  like  a 
preternatural,  spectral  appearance,  or  Uke  one  of  the  figures  in 
Dante's  Inferno.    Yet  he  fought  on  after  this  for  several  rounds, 


WILLIAM  HAZLITT  265 

still  striking  the  first  desperate  blow,  and  Neate  standing  on  the 
defensive,  and  using  the  same  cautious  guard  to  the  last,  as  if 
he  had  still  all  his  work  to  do;  and  it  was  not  till  the  Gasman  was 
so  stunned  in  the  seventeenth  or  eighteenth  round,  that  his 
senses  forsook  him,  and  he  could  not  come  to  time,  that  the 
battle  was  declared  over.^ 

Ye  who  despise  the  Fancy,  do  something  to  show  as  much 
pluck,  or  as  much  self-possession  as  this,  before  you  assume  a 
superiority  which  you  have  never  given  a  single  proof  of  by  any 
one  action  in  the  whole  course  of  your  lives ! — When  the  Gasman 
came  to  himself,  the  first  words  he  uttered  were,  "Where  am  I? 
What  is  the  matter?"  "Nothing  is  the  matter,  Tom, — you  have 
lost  the  battle,  but  you  are  the  bravest  man  alive."  And  Jack- 
son whispered  to  him,  "I  am  collecting  a  purse  for  you,  Tom." — 
Vain  sounds,  and  unheard  at  that  moment!  Neate  instantly 
went  up  and  shook  him  cordially  by  the  hand,  and  seeing  some 
old  acquaintance,  began  to  flourish  with  his  fists,  calHng  out, 
"Ah!  you  always  said  I  could  n't  fight — what  do  you  think  now?" 
But  all  in  good-humour,  and  without  any  appearance  of  arro- 
gance; only  it  was  evident  Bill  Neate  was  pleased  that  he  had 
won  the  fight.  When  it  was  over,  I  asked  Cribb  if  he  did  not 
think  it  was  a  good  one?  He  said,  ^^ Pretty  wellT'  The  carrier- 
pigeons  now  mounted  into  the  air,  and  one  of  them  flew  with  the 
news  of  her  husband's  victory  to  the  bosom  of  Mrs.  Neate. 
Alas,  for  Mrs.  Hickman! 

Mais  au  revoir,  as  Sir  FopHng  Flutter  says.    I  went  down  with 

Joe  P s;   I  returned  with  Jack  Pigott,  whom  I  met  on  the 

ground.  Tom's  is  a  rattle-brain;  Pigott  is  a  sentimentalist. 
Now,  under  favour,  I  am  a  sentimentalist  too — therefore  I  say 

^  Scroggins  said  of  the  Gasman,  that  he  thought  he  was  a  man  of  that  courage, 
that  if  his  hands  were  cut  off  he  would  still  fight  on  with  the  stumps — like  that  of 
Widdrington — 

— "In  doleful  dumps, 

Who,  when  his  legs  were  smitten  off. 

Still  fought  upon  his  stumps." 


266  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

nothing,  but  that  the  interest  of  the  excursion  did  not  flag  as  I 
came  back.  Pigott  and  I  marched  along  the  causeway  leading 
from  Hungerford  to  Newbury,  now  observing  the  effect  of  a 
brilHant  sim  on  the  tawny  meads  or  moss-coloured  cottages, 
now  exulting  in  the  fight,  now  digressing  to  some  topic  of  general 
and  elegant  literature.  My  friend  was  dressed  in  character  for 
the  occasion,  or  like  one  of  the  Fancy;  that  is,  with  a  double 
portion  of  greatcoats,  clogs,  and  overhauls:  and  just  as  we  had 
agreed  with  a  couple  of  country-lads  to  carry  his  superfluous 
wearing-apparel  to  the  next  town,  we  were  overtaken  by  a 
return  post-chaise,  into  which  I  got,  Pigott  preferring  a  seat 
on  the  bar. 

There  were  two  strangers  already  in  the  chaise,  and  on  their 
observing  they  supposed  I  had  been  to  the  fight,  I  said  I  had, 
and  concluded  they  had  done  the  same.  They  appeared,  how- 
ever, a  little  shy  and  sore  on  the  subject;  and  it  was  not  till  after 
several  hints  dropped,  and  questions  put,  that  it  turned  out  that 
they  had  missed  it.  One  of  these  friends  had  undertaken  to 
drive  the  other  there  in  his  gig:  they  had  set  out,  to  make  sure 
work,  the  day  before  at  three  in  the  afternoon.  The  owner  of 
the  one-horse  vehicle  scorned  to  ask  his  way,  and  drove  right  on 
to  Bagshot,  instead  of  turning  off  at  Hounslow:  there  they 
stopped  all  night,  and  set  off  the  next  day  across  the  country  to 
Reading,  from  whence  they  took  coach,  and  got  down  within  a 
mile  or  two  of  Hungerford,  just  half-an-hour  after  the  fight  was 
over.  This  might  be  safely  set  down  as  one  of  the  miseries  of 
human  Ufe. 

We  parted  with  these  two  gentlemen  who  had  been  to  see  the 
fight,  but  had  returned  as  they  went,  at  Wolhampton,  where  we 
were  promised  beds  (an  irresistible  temptation,  for  Pigott  had 
passed  the  preceding  night  at  Hungerford  as  we  had  done  at 
Newbury),  and  we  turned  into  an  old  bow- windowed  parlour 
with  a  carpet  and  a  snug  fire;  and  after  devouring  a  quantity  of 
tea,  toast,  and  eggs,  sat  down  to  consider,  during  an  hour  of 


WILLIAM  HAZLITT  267 

philosophic  leisure,  what  we  should  have  for  supper.  In  the 
midst  of  an  Epicurean  deUberation  between  a  roasted  fowl  and 
mutton  chops  with  mashed  potatoes,  we  were  interrupted  by 
an  inroad  of  Goths  and  Vandals — O  procul  este  profani — not 
real  flash-men,  but  interlopers,  noisy  pretenders,  butchers  from 
Tothill  Fields,  brokers  from  Whitechapel,  who  called  immedi- 
ately for  pipes  and  tobacco,  hoping  it  would  not  be  disagreeable 
to  the  gentlemen,  and  began  to  insist  that  it  was  a  cross.  Pigott 
withdrew  from  the  smoke  and  noise  into  another  room,  and  left 
me  to  dispute  the  point  with  them  for  a  couple  of  hours  sans 
intermission  by  the  dial. 

The  next  morning  we  rose  refreshed;  and  on  observing 
that  Jack  had  a  pocket  volume  in  his  hand,  in  which  he  read 
in  the  intervals  of  our  discourse,  I  inquired  what  it  was,  and 
learned  to  my  particular  satisfaction  that  it  was  a  volume 
of  the  New  Eloise.  Ladies,  after  this,  you  will  contend  that 
a  love  for  the  Fancy  is  incompatible  with  the  cultivation  of 
sentiment? — We  jogged  on  as  before,  my  friend  setting  me 
up  in  a  genteel  drab  great  coat  and  green  silk  handkerchief 
(which  I  must  say  became  me  exceedingly),  and  after  stretching 
our  legs  for  a  few  miles,  and  seeing  Jack  Randall,  Ned  Turner, 
and  Scroggins  pass  on  the  top  of  one  of  the  Bath  coaches,  we 
engaged  with  the  driver  of  the  second  to  take  us  to  London  for 
the  usual  fee. 

I  got  inside,  and  found  three  other  passengers.  One  of 
them  was  an  old  gentleman  with  an  aquiUne  nose,  powdered 
hair,  and  a  pig-tail,  and  who  looked  as  if  he  had  played  many  a 
rubber  at  the  Bath  rooms.  I  said  to  myself,  he  is  very  Uke 
Mr.  Windham;  I  wish  he  would  enter  into  conversation,  that  I 
might  hear  what  fine  observations  would  come  from  those 
finely-turned  features.  However,  nothing  passed,  till,  stopping 
to  dine  at  Reading,  some  inquiry  was  made  by  the  company 
about  the  fight,  and  I  gave  (as  the  reader  may  believe)  an 
eloquent  and  animated  description  of  it. 


268  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

When  we  got  into  the  coach  again,  the  old  gentleman,  after  a 
graceful  exordium,  said  he  had,  when  a  boy,  been  to  a  fight  be- 
tween the  famous  Broughton  and  George  Stevenson,  who  was 
called  the  Fighting  Coachman y  in  the  year  1770,  with  the  late 
Mr.  Windham.  This  beginning  flattered  the  spirit  of  prophecy 
with  me,  and  riveted  my  attention.  He  went  on — "George 
Stevenson  was  coachman  to  a  friend  of  my  father's.  He  was  an 
old  man  when  I  saw  him,  some  years  afterwards.  He  took  hold 
of  his  own  arm  and  said^  '  there  was  muscle  here  once,  but  now  it 
is  no  more  than  this  young  gentleman's.'  He  added,  'well,  no 
matter;  I  have  been  here  long,  I  am  willing  to  go  hence,  and  I 
hope  I  have  done  no  more  harm  than  another  man.'  ''Once," 
said  my  unknown  companion,  "I  asked  him  if  he  had  ever  beat 
Broughton?  He  said  Yes;  that  he  had  fought  with  him  three 
times,  and  the  last  time  he  fairly  beat  him,  though  the  world 
did  not  allow  it.  '  I  '11  tell  you  how  it  was,  master.  When  the 
seconds  Ufted  us  up  in  the  last  round,  we  were  so  exhausted  that 
neither  of  us  could  stand,  and  we  fell  upon  one  another,  and  as 
Master  Broughton  fell  uppermost,  the  mob  gave  it  in  his  favour, 
and  he  was  said  to  have  won  the  battle.  But  the  fact  was,  that 
as  his  second  (John  Cuthbert)  Hfted  him  up,  he  said  to  him, 
"I'll  fight  no  more,  I've  had  enough";  which,'  said  Stevenson, 
'you  know  gave  me  the  victory.  And  to  prove  to  you  that  this 
was  the  case,  when  John  Cuthbert  was  on  his  death-bed,  and 
they  asked  him  if  there  was  anything  on  his  mind  which  he 
wished  to  confess,  he  answered,  "Yes,  that  there  was  one  thing 
he  wished  to  set  right,  for  that  certainly  Master  Stevenson  won 
that  last  fight  with  Master  Broughton;  for  he  whispered  him  as 
he  Hfted  him  up  in  the  last  round  of  all,  that  he  had  had  enough.'* ' 
"This,"  said  the  Bath  gentleman,  "was  a  bit  of  human  nature; " 
and  I  have  written  this  account  of  the  fight  on  purpose  that  it 
might  not  be  lost  to  the  world.  He  also  stated  as  a  proof  of  the 
candour  of  mind  in  this  class  of  men,  that  Stevenson  acknowl- 
edged that  Broughton  could  have  beat  him  in  his  best  day;  but 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY  269 

that  he  (B  rough  ton)  was  getting  old  in  their  last  rencounter. 
When  he  stopped  in  Piccadilly,  I  wanted  to  ask  the  gentleman 
some  questions  about  the  late  Mr.  Windham,  but  had  not  cour- 
age. I  got  out,  resigned  my  coat  and  green  silk  handkerchief  to 
Pigott  (loth  to  part  with  these  ornaments  of  life),  and  walked 
home  in  high  spirits. 

P.  S. — Joe  called  upon  me  the  next  day,  to  ask  me  if  I  did  not 
think  the  fight  was  a  complete  thing?  I  said  I  thought  it  was. 
I  hope  he  will  rehsh  my  account  of  it. 


WILLIAM   MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY 

1811-1863 

GENERAL  WEBB  AND  THE  DUKE  OF  MARLBOROUGH 

[From  The  History  of  Henry  Esmond,  Esq.,  1852. 

The  passage  is  a  bit  of  feigned  history  reported  by  Henry  Esmond,  a 
supposed  officer  in  Webb's  command  during  the  continental  campaign 
in  the  so-called  "War  of  the  Spanish  Succession."] 

THE  CAMPAIGN  OF  1707,  1708 
During  the  whole  of  the  year  which  succeeded  that  in  which  the 
glorious  battle  of  Ramillies  had  been  fought,  our  army  made  no 
movement  of  importance,  much  to  the  disgust  of  very  many  of 
our  officers  remaining  inactive  in  Flanders,  who  said  that  his 
Grace  the  Captain-General  had  had  fighting  enough,  and  was  all 
for  money  now,  and  the  enjoyment  of  his  five  thousand  a  year 
and  his  splendid  palace  at  Woodstock,  which  was  now  being 
built.  And  his  Grace  had  sufficient  occupation  fighting  his  ene- 
mies at  home  this  year,  where  it  began  to  be  whispered  that  his 
favour  was  decreasing,  and  his  Duchess  losing  her  hold  on  the 
Queen,  who  was  transferring  her  royal  affections  to  the  famous 
Mrs.  Masham,  and  Mrs.  Masham's  humble  servant,  Mr.  Harley. 
Against  their  intrigues,  our  Duke  passed  a  great  part  of  his  time 


270  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

intriguing.  Mr.  Harley  was  got  out  of  office,  and  his  Grace,  in 
so  far,  had  a  victory.  But  Her  Majesty,  convinced  against  her 
will,  was  of  that  opinion  still,  of  which  the  poet  says  people  are 
when  so  convinced,  and  Mr.  Harley  before  long  had  his  revenge. 

Meanwhile  the  business  of  fighting  did  not  go  on  any  way  to 
the  satisfaction  of  Marlborough's  gallant  Heutenants.  During 
all  1707,  with  the  French  before  us,  we  had  never  so  much  as  a 
battle;  our  army  in  Spain  was  utterly  routed  at  Almanza  by  the 
gallant  Duke  of  Berwick;  and  we  of  Webb's,  which  regiment  the 
young  Duke  had  commanded  before  his  father's  abdication, 
were  a  little  proud  to  think  that  it  was  our  colonel  who  had 
achieved  this  victory.  '  I  think  if  I  had  had  Galway 's  place,  and 
my  Fusileers,'  says  our  General,  'we  would  not  have  laid  down 
our  arms,  even  to  our  old  colonel,  as  Galway  did;'  and  Webb's 
officers  swore  if  we  had  had  Webb,  at  least  we  would  not  have 
been  taken  prisoners.  Our  dear  old  General  talked  incautiously 
of  himself  and  of  others;  a  braver  or  a  more  brilliant  soldier 
never  lived  than  he ;  but  he  blew  his  honest  trumpet  rather  more 
loudly  than  became  a  commander  of  his  station,  and,  mighty 
man  of  valour  as  he  was,  shook  his  great  spear  and  blustered 
before  the  army  too  fiercely. 

Mysterious  Mr.  Holtz  went  off  on  a  secret  expedition  in  the 
early  part  of  1 708,  with  great  elation  of  spirits  and  a  prophecy  to 
Esmond  that  a  wonderful  something  was  about  to  take  place. 
This  secret  came  out  on  my  friend's  return  to  the  army,  whither 
he  brought  a  most  rueful  and  dejected  countenance,  and  owned 
that  the  great  something  he  had  been  engaged  upon,  had  failed 
utterly.  He  had  been  indeed  with  that  luckless  expedition  of 
the  Chevalier  de  St.  George,  who  was  sent  by  the  French  King 
with  ships  and  an  army  from  Dunkirk,  and  was  to  have  invaded 
and  conquered  Scotland.  But  that  ill  wind  which  ever  opposed 
all  the  projects  upon  which  the  Prince  ever  embarked,  prevented 
the  Chevalier's  invasion  of  Scotland,  as  't  is  known,  and  blew 
poor  Monsieur  von  Holtz  back  into  our  camp  again,  to  scheme 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY  271 

and  foretell,  and  to  pry  about  as  usual.  The  Chevalier  (the 
King  of  England,  as  some  of  us  held  him)  went  from  Dunkirk 
to  the  French  army  to  make  the  campaign  against  us.  The  Duke 
of  Burgundy  had  the  command  this  year,  having  the  Duke  of 
Berry  with  him,  and  the  famous  Mareschal  Vendosme  and  the 
Duke  of  Matignon  to  aid  him  in  the  campaign.  Holtz,  who  knew 
everything  that  was  passing  in  Flanders  and  France  (and  the 
Indies  for  what  I  know),  insisted  that  there  would  be  no  more 
fighting  in  1708  than  there  had  been  in  the  previous  year,  and 
that  our  commander  had  reasons  for  keeping  him  quiet.  Indeed, 
Esmond's  General,  who  was  known  as  a  grumbler,  and  to  have  a 
hearty  mistrust  of  the  great  Puke,  and  hundreds  more  officers 
besides,  did  not  scruple  to  say  that  these  private  reasons  came 
to  the  Duke  in  the  shape  of  crown-pieces  from  the  French  King, 
by  whom  the  Generalissimo  was  bribed  to  avoid  a  battle.  There 
were  plenty  of  men  in  our  lines,  quidnuncs,  to  whom  Mr.  Webb 
listened  only  too  willingly,  who  could  specify  the  exact  sums  the 
Duke  got,  how  much  fell  to  Cadogan's  share,  and  what  was  the 
precise  fee  given  to  Doctor  Hare. 

And  the  successes  with  which  the  French  began  the  campaign 
of  1 708  served  to  give  strength  to  these  reports  of  treason,  which 
were  in  everybody's  mouth.  Our  General  allowed  the  enemy  to 
get  between  us  and  Ghent,  and  declined  to  attack  him,  though 
for  eight-and-forty  hours  the  armies  were  in  presence  of  each 
other.  Ghent  was  taken,  and  on  the  same  day  Monsieur  de  la 
Mothe  summoned  Bruges;  and  these  two  great  cities  fell  into 
the  hands  of  the  French  without  firing  a  shot.  A  few  days  after- 
wards La  Mothe  seized  upon  the  fort  of  Plashendall:  and  it 
began  to  be  supposed  that  all  Spanish  Flanders,  as  well  as  Bra- 
bant, would  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  French  troops;  when  the 
Prince  Eugene  arrived  from  the  Mozelle,  and  then  there  was  no 
more  shilly-shallying. 

The  Prince  of  Savoy  always  signalised  his  arrival  at  the  army 
by  a  great  feast  (my  Lord  Duke's  entertainments  were  both 


272  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

seldom  and  shabby) ;  and  I  remember  our  General  returning  from 
this  dinner  with  the  two  Commanders-in-Chief;  his  honest  liead 
a  little  excited  by  wine,  which  was  dealt  out  much  more  liberally 
by  the  Austrian  than  by  the  EngHsh  commander: — 'Now,'  says 
my  General,  slapping  the  table,  with  an  oath,  'he  must  fight; 

and  when  he  is  forced  to  it,  d it,  no  man  in  Europe  can  stand 

up  against  Jack  Churchill.'  Within  a  week  the  battle  of  Oude- 
narde  was  fought,  when,  hate  each  other  as  they  might,  Esmond's 
General  and  the  Commander-in-Chief  were  forced  to  admire 
each  other,  so  splendid  was  the  gallantry  of  each  upon  this  day. 
The  brigade  commanded  by  Major-General  Webb  gave  and 
received  about  as  hard  knocks  as  any  that  were  delivered  in  that 
action,  in  which  Mr.  Esmond  had  the  fortune  to  serve  at  the  head 
of  his  own  company  in  his  regiment,  under  the  command  of  their 
own  Colonel  as  Major-General;  and  it  was  his  good  luck  to  bring 
the  regiment  out  of  action  as  commander  of  it,  the  four  senior 
officers  above  him  being  killed  in  the  prodigious  slaughter  which 
happened  on  that  day.  I  like  to  think  that  Jack  Haythorn,  who 
sneered  at  me  for  being  a  bastard  and  a  parasite  of  Webb's,  as 
he  chose  to  call  me,  and  with  whom  I  had  had  words,  shook 
hands  with  me  the  day  before  the  battle  begun.  Three  days 
before,  poor  Brace,  our  Lieutenant-Colonel,  had  heard  of  his 
elder  brother's  death,  and  was  heir  to  a  baronetcy  in  Norfolk, 
and  four  thousand  a  year.  Fate,  that  had  left  him  harmless 
through  a  dozen  campaigns,  seized  on  him  just  as  the  world 
was  worth  living  for,  and  he  went  into  action  knowing,  as  he 
said,  that  the  luck  was  going  to  turn  against  him.  The  Major 
had  just  joined  us — a  creature  of  Lord  Marlborough,  put  in 
much  to  the  dislike  of  the  other  officers,  and  to  be  a  spy  upon 
us,  as  it  was  said.  I  know  not  whether  the  truth  was  so,  nor 
who  took  the  tattle  of  our  mess  to  headquarters,  but  Webb's 
regiment,  as  its  Colonel,  was  known  to  be  in  the  Commander- 
in-Chief's  black  books:  'And  if  he  did  not  dare  to  break  it  up 
at  home,'  our  gallant  old  chief  used  to  say,  'he  was  determined 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY  273 

to  destroy  it  before  the  enemy;'  so  that  poor  Major  Proudfoot 
was  put  into  a  post  of  danger. 

Esmond's  dear  young  Viscount,  serving  as  aide-de-camp 
to  my  Lord  Duke,  received  a  wound,  and  won  an  honourable 
name  for  himself  in  the  Gazette;  and  Captain  Esmond's  name 
was  sent  in  for  promotion  by  his  General,  too,  whose  favourite 
he  was. 

We  of  the  English  party  in  the  army,  who  were  incHned  to 
sneer  at  everything  that  came  out  of  Hanover,  and  to  treat  as 
Uttle  better  than  boors  and  savages  the  Elector's  Court  and 
family,  were  yet  forced  to  confess  that,  on  the  day  of  Oudenarde, 
the  young  Electoral  Prince,  then  making  his  first  campaign,  con- 
ducted himself  with  the  spirit  and  courage  of  an  approved  soldier. 
On  this  occasion  his  Electoral  Highness  had  better  luck  than 
the  King  of  England,  who  was  with  his  cousins  in  the  enemy's 
camp,  and  had  to  run  with  them  at  the  ignominious  end  of  the 
day.  With  the  most  consummate  generals  in  the  world  before 
them,  and  an  admirable  commander  on  their  own  side,  they  chose 
to  neglect  the  counsels,  and  to  rush  into  a  combat  with  the 
former,  which  would  have  ended  in  the  utter  annihilation  of 
their  army  but  for  the  great  skill  and  bravery  of  the  Duke  of 
Vendosme,  who  remedied,  as  far  as  courage  and  genius  might, 
the  disasters  occasioned  by  the  squabbles  and  follies  of  his  kins- 
men, the  legitimate  princes  of  the  blood-royal. 

'If  the  Duke  of  Berwick  had  but  been  in  the  army,  the 
fate  of  the  day  would  have  been  very  different,'  was  all  that 
poor  Mr.  von  Holtz  could  say;  'and  you  would  have  seen 
that  the  hero  of  Almanza  was  fit  to  measure  swords  with  the 
conqueror  of  Blenheim.' 

The  business  relative  to  the  exchange  of  prisoners  was  always 

going  on,  and  was  at  least   that  ostensible  one    which  kept 

Mr.  Holtz  perpetually  on  the  move  between  the  forces  of  the 

French  and  the  Allies.    I  can  answer  for  it,  that  he  was  once 

18 


274  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

very  near  hanged  as  a  spy  by  Major-General  Wayne,  when 
he  was  released  and  sent  on  to  headquarters,  by  a  special 
order  of  the  Commander-in-Chief.  He  came  and  went,  always 
favoured,  wherever  he  was,  by  some  high  though  occult  protec- 
tion. He  carried  messages  between  the  Duke  of  Berwick  and 
his  uncle,  our  Duke.  He  seemed  to  know  as  well  what  was 
taking  place  in  the  Prince's  quarter  as  our  own:  he  brought  the 
compliments  of  the  King  of  England  to  some  of  our  officers,  the 
gentlemen  of  Webb's  among  the  rest,  for  their  behaviour  on 
that  great  day;  and  after  Wynendael,  when  our  General  was 
chafing  at  the  neglect  of  our  Commander-in-Chief,  he  said  he 
knew  how  that  action  was  regarded  by  the  chiefs  of  the  French 
army,  and  that  the  stand  made  before  Wynendael  Wood  was 
the  passage  by  which  the  Allies  entered  Lille. 

'Ah!'  says  Holtz  (and  some  folks  were  very  willing  to  listen  to 
him),  'ii  the  King  came  by  his  own,  how  changed  the  conduct  of 
affairs  would  be!  His  Majesty's  very  exile  has  this  advantage, 
that  he  is  enabled  to  read  England  impartially,,  and  to  judge 
honestly  of  all  the  eminent  men.  His  sister  is  always  in  the  hand 
of  one  greedy  favourite  or  another,  through  whose  eyes  she  sees, 
and  to  whose  flattery  or  dependants  she  gives  away  everything. 
Do  you  suppose  that  His  Majesty,  knowing  England  so  well  as 
he  does,  would  neglect  such  a  man  as  General  Webb?  He  ought 
to  be  in  the  House  of  Peers,  as  Lord  Lydiard.  The  enemy  and 
all  Europe  know  his  merit;  it  is  that  very  reputation  which  cer- 
tain great  people,  who  hate  all  equality  and  independence,  can 
never  pardon.'  It  was  intended  that  these  conversations  should 
be  carried  to  Mr.  Webb.  They  were  welcome  to  him,  for  great 
as  his  services  were,  no  man  could  value  them  more  than  John 
Richmond  Webb  did  himself,  and  the  differences  between  him 
and  Marlborough  being  notorious,  his  Grace's  enemies  in  the 
army  and  at  home  began  to  court  Webb,  and  set  him  up  against 
the  all-grasping,  domineering  chief.  And  soon  after  the  victory 
of  Oudenarde,  a  glorious  opportunity  fell  into  General  Webb's 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY  275 

way,  which  that  gallant  warrior  did  not  neglect,  and  which  gave 
him  the  means  of  immensely  increasing  his  reputation  at  home. 


GENERAL  WEBB  WINS  THE  BATTLE  OF  WYNENDAEL 
By  the  besiegers  and  besieged  of  Lille,  some  of  the  most  briUiant 
feats  of  valour  were  performed  that  ever  illustrated  any  war. 
On  the  French  side  (whose  gallantry  was  prodigious,  the  skill 
and  bravery  of  Marshal  Boufflers  actually  eclipsing  those  of  his 
conqueror,  the  Prince  of  Savoy)  may  be  mentioned  that  daring 
action  of  Messieurs  de  Luxembourg  and  Tournefort,  who,  with  a 
body  of  horse  and  dragoons,  carried  powder  into  the  town,  of 
which  the  besieged  were  in  extreme  want,  each  soldier  bringing  a 
bag  with  forty  pounds  of  powder  behind  him;  with  which  peril- 
ous provision  they  engaged  our  own  horse,  faced  the  fire  of  the 
foot  brought  out  to  meet  them:  and  though  half  of  the  men 
were  blown  up  in  the  dreadful  errand  they  rode  on,  a  part  of 
them  got  into  the  town  with  the  succours  of  which  the  garrison 
was  so  much  in  want.  A  French  officer,  Monsieur  du  Bois,  per- 
formed an  act  equally  daring,  and  perfectly  successful.  The 
Duke's  great  army  lying  at  Helchin,  and  covering  the  siege,  and 
it  being  necessary  for  M.  de  Vendosme  to  get  news  of  the  condi- 
tion of  the  place.  Captain  du  Bois  performed  his  famous  exploit: 
not  only  passing  through  the  lines  of  the  siege,  but  swimming 
afterwards  no  less  than  seven  moats  and  ditches:  and  coming 
back  the  same  way,  swimming  with  his  letters  in  his  mouth. 

By  these  letters  Monsieur  de  Boufiiers  said  that  he  could  un- 
dertake to  hold  the  place  till  October;  and  that  if  one  of  the  con- 
voys of  the  AUies  could  be  intercepted,  they  must  raise  the  siege 
altogether. 

Such  a  convoy  as  hath  been  said  was  now  prepared  at  Ostend, 
and  about  to  march  for  the  siege;  and  on  the  27th  September 
we  (and  the  French  too)  had  news  that  it  was  on  its  way.  It 
was  composed  of  700  waggons,  containing  ammunition  of  all 


276  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

sorts,  and  was  escorted  out  of  Ostend  by  2000  infantry  and  300 
horse.  At  the  same  time  M.  de  la  Mothe  quitted  Bruges,  having 
with  him  five-and-thirty  battalions,  and  upwards  of  sixty  squad- 
rons and  forty  guns,  in  pursuit  of  the  convoy. 

Major-General  Webb  had  meanwhile  made  up  a  force  of 
twenty  battaUons  and  three  squadrons  of  dragoons  at  Turout, 
whence  he  moved  to  cover  the  convoy  and  pursue  La  Mothe: 
with  whose  advanced  guard  ours  came  up  upon  the  great  plain  of 
Turout,  and  before  the  little  wood  and  castle  of  Wynendael; 
behind  which  the  convoy  was  marching. 

As  soon  as  they  came  in  sight  of  the  enemy,  our  advanced 
troops  were  halted,  with  the  wood  behind  them,  and  the  rest  of 
our  force  brought  up  as  quickly  as  possible,  our  little  body  of 
horse  being  brought  forward  to  the  opening  of  the  plain,  as  our 
General  said,  to  amuse  the  enemy.  When  M.  de  la  Mothe  came 
up,  he  foimd  us  posted  in  two  lines  in  front  of  the  wood;  and 
formed  his  own  army  in  battle  facing  ours,  in  eight  lines,  four  of 
infantry  in  front,  and  dragoons  and  cavalry  behind. 

The  French  began  the  action,  as  usual,  with  a  cannonade  which 
lasted  three  hours,  when  they  made  their  attack,  advancing  in 
eight  lines,  four  of  foot  and  four  of  horse,  upon  the  alHed  troops 
in  the  wood  where  we  were  posted.  Their  infantry  behaved  ill: 
they  were  ordered  to  charge  with  the  bayonet,  but,  instead,  be- 
gan to  fire,  and  almost  at  the  very  first  discharge  from  our  men, 
broke  and  fled.  The  cavalry  behaved  better;  with  these  alone, 
who  were  three  or  four  times  as  nimierous  as  our  whole  force, 
Monsieur  de  la  Mothe  might  have  won  victory:  but  only  two  of 
our  battahons  were  shaken  in  the  least;  and  these  speedily 
rallied:  nor  could  the  repeated  attacks  of  the  French  horse  cause 
our  troops  to  budge  an  inch  from  the  position  in  the  wood  in 
which  our  General  had  placed  them. 

After  attacking  for  two  hours,  the  French  retired  at  nightfall, 
entirely  foiled.  With  all  the  loss  we  had  inflicted  upon  him,  the 
enemy  was  still  three  times  stronger  than  we:  and  it  could  not 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY  277 

be  supposed  that  our  General  could  pursue  M.  de  la  Mothe, 
or  do  much  more  than  hold  our  ground  about  the  wood,  from 
which  the  Frenchman  had  in  vain  attempted  to  dislodge  us. 
La  Mothe  retired  behind  his  forty  guns,  his  cavalry  protecting 
them  better  than  it  had  been  able  to  annoy  us;  and  meanwhile 
the  convoy,  which  was  of  more  importance  than  all  our  little 
force,  and  the  safe  passage  of  which  we  would  have  dropped 
to  the  last  man  to  accomplish,  marched  away  in  perfect  safety 
during  the  action,  and  joyfully  reached  the  besieging  camp 
before  Lille. 

Major-General  Cadogan,  my  Lord  Duke's  Quartermaster- 
General  (and  between  whom  and  Mr.  Webb  there  was  no  love 
lost),  accompanied  the  convoy,  and  joined  Mr.  Webb  with  a 
couple  of  hundred  horse  just  as  the  battle  was  over,  and  the  en- 
emy in  full  retreat.  He  offered,  readily  enough,  to  charge  with 
his  horse  upon  the  French  as  they  fell  back;  but  his  force  was  too 
weak  to  inflict  any  damage  upon  them;  and  Mr.  Webb,  com- 
manding as  Cadogan's  senior,  thought  enough  was  done  in  holding 
our  ground  before  an  enemy  that  might  still  have  overwhelmed 
us  had  we  engaged  him  in  the  open  territory,  and  in  securing 
the  safe  passage  of  the  convoy.  Accordingly,  the  horse  brought 
up  by  Cadogan  did  not  draw  a  sword;  and  only  prevented,  by 
the  good  countenance  they  showed,  any  disposition  the  French 
might  have  had  to  renew  the  attack  on  us.  And  no  attack  com- 
ing, at  nightfall  General  Cadogan  drew  off  with  his  squadron, 
being  bound  for  headquarters,  the  two  Generals  at  parting  grimly 
saluting  each  other. 

'He  will  be  at  Roncq  time  enough  to  Hck  my  Lord  Duke's 
trenchers  at  supper,'  says  Mr.  Webb. 

Our  own  men  lay  out  in  the  woods  of  Wynendael  that  night, 
and  our  General  had  his  supper  in  the  little  castle  there. 

'  If  I  was  Cadogan,  I  would  have  a  peerage  for  this  day's  work,' 
General  Webb  said;  'and,  Harry,  thou  shouldst  have  a  regiment. 
Thou  hast  been  reported  in  the  last  two  actions;  thou  wert  near 


278  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

killed  in  the  first.  I  shall  mention  thee  in  my  despatch  to  his 
Grace  the  Commander-in-Chief,  and  recommend  thee  to  poor 
Dick  Harwood's  vacant  majority.  Have  you  ever  a  hundred 
guineas  to  give  Cardonnel?  Slip  them  into  his  hand  to-morrow, 
when  you  go  to  headquarters  with  my  report.' 

In  this  report  the  Major-General  was  good  enough  to  mention 
Captain  Esmond's  name  with  particular  favour;  and  that  gen- 
tleman carried  the  despatch  to  headquarters  the  next  day,  and 
was  not  a  little  pleased  to  bring  back  a  letter  by  his  Grace's 
secretary,  addressed  to  Lieutenant-General  Webb.  The  Dutch 
officer  despatched  by  Count  Nassau  Woudenbourg,  Vaelt-Mare- 
schal  Auverquerque's  son,  brought  back  also  a  complimentary 
letter  to  his  commander,  who  had  seconded  Mr.  Webb  in  the 
action  with  great  valour  and  skill. 

Esmond,  with  a  low  bow  and  a  smiling  face,  presented  his 
despatch,  and  saluted  Mr.  Webb  as  Lieutenant-General,  as  he 
gave  it  in.  The  gentlemen  round  about  him — he  was  riding  with 
his  suite  on  the  road  to  Menin  as  Esmond  came  up  with  him — 
gave  a  cheer,  and  he  thanked  them,  and  opened  the  despatch 
with  rather  a  flushed,  eager  face. 

He  slapped  it  down  on  his  boot  in  a  rage  after  he  had  read  it. 
'  'T  is  not  even  writ  with  his  own  hand.  Read  it  out,  Esmond." 
And  Esmond  read  it  out: — 

Sir, —  Mr.  Cadogan  is  just  now  come  in,  and  has  acquainted  me 
with  the  success  of  the  action  you  had  yesterday  in  the  afternoon 
against  the  body  of  troops  commanded  by  M.  de  la  Mo  the,  at  Wy- 
nendael,  which  must  be  attributed  chiefly  to  your  good  conduct  and 
resolution.  You  may  be  sure  I  shaU  do  you  justice  at  home,  and  be 
glad  on  aU  occasions  to  own  the  service  you  have  done  in  securing 
this  convoy. — Yours,  &c.,  M. 

*Two  lines  by  that  d d  Cardonnel,  and  no  more,  for  the 

taking  of  Lille — for  beating  five  times  our  number — for  an 
action  as  briUiant  as  the  best  he  ever  fought,'  says  poor 
Mr.  Webb.    'Lieutenant-General!    That 's  not  his  doing.    I  was 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY  279 

the  oldest  major-general.    By ,  I  believe  he  had  been  better 

pleased  if  I  had  been  beat.' 

The  letter  to  the  Dutch  officer  was  in  French,  and  longer  and 
more  comphmentary  than  that  to  Mr.  Webb. 

'  And  this  is  the  man,'  he  broke  out, '  that 's  gorged  with  gold — 
that 's  covered  with  titles  and  honours  that  we  won  for  him — and 
that  grudges  even  a  line  of  praise  to  a  comrade  in  arms!  Has  n't 
he  enough?  Don 't  we  fight  that  he  may  roll  in  riches  ?  Well, 
well,  wait  for  the  Gazette,  gentlemen.  The  Queen  and  the  coun- 
try will  do  us  justice  if  his  Grace  denies  it  us.'  There  were  tears 
of  rage  in  the  brave  warrior's  eyes  as  he  spoke;  and  he  dashed 
them  off  his  face  on  to  his  glove.  He  shook  his  fist  in  the  air. 
'Oh,  by  the  Lord!'  says  he,  'I  know  what  I  had  rather  have 
than  a  peerage!' 

'And  what  is  that,  sir?'  some  of  them  asked. 

'  I  had  rather  have  a  quarter  of  an  hour  with  John  Churchill, 
on  a  fair  green  field,  and  only  a  pair  of  rapiers  between  my  shirt 
and  his ' 

'Sir!' interposes  one. 

'Tell  him  so!  I  know  that's  what  you  mean.  I  know  every 
word  goes  to  him  that 's  dropped  from  every  general  officer's 
mouth.  I  don 't  say  he 's  not  brave.  Curse  him,  he 's  brave 
enough;  but  we'll  wait  for  the  Gazette,  gentlemen.  God  save 
Her  Majesty!    she  '11  do  us  justice.' 

The  Gazette  did  not  come  to  us  till  a  month  afterwards;  when 
my  General  and  his  officers  had  the  honour  to  dine  with  Prince 
Eugene  in  Lille;  his  Highness  being  good  enough  to  say  that  we 
had  brought  the  provisions,  and  ought  to  share  in  the  banquet. 
'T  was  a  great  banquet.  His  Grace  of  Marlborough  was  on  his 
Highness's  right,  and  on  his  left  the  Mareschal  de  Boufflers,  who 
had  so  bravely  defended  the  place.  The  chief  officers  of  either 
army  were  present;  and  you  may  be  sure  Esmond's  General  was 
splendid  this  day:  his  tall  noble  person,  and  manly  beauty  of 
face,  made  him  remarkable  anywhere;  he  wore,  for  the  first  time, 


28o  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

the  star  of  the  Order  of  Generosity,  that  His  Prussian  Majesty 
had  sent  to  him  for  his  victory.  His  Highness  the  Prince  of 
Savoy  called  a  toast  to  the  conqueror  of  Wynendael.  My  Lord 
Duke  drank  it  with  rather  a  sickly  smile.  The  aides-de-camp 
were  present;  and  Harry  Esmond  and  his  dear  young  lord  were 
together,  as  they  always  strove  to  be  when  duty  would  permit: 
they  were  over  against  the  table  where  the  generals  were,  and 
could  see  all  that  passed  pretty  well.  Frank  laughed  at  my  Lord 
Duke's  glum  face:  the  affair  of  Wynendael,  and  the  Captain- 
General's  conduct  to  Webb,  had  been  the  talk  of  the  whole  army. 
When  his  Highness  spoke,  and  gave,  'Le  vainqueur  de  Wynen- 
dael; son  armee  et  sa  victoire,'  adding,  'qui  nous  font  diner  a 
Lille  aujourd'huy' —  there  was  a  great  cheer  through  the  hall; 
for  Mr.  Webb's  bravery,  generosity,  and  very  weaknesses  of 
character  caused  him  to  be  beloved  in  the  army. 

*Like  Hector  handsome,  and  like  Paris  brave! '  whispers  Frank 
Castlewood.  'A  Venus,  an  elderly  Venus, could  n't  refuse  him  a 
pippin.  Stand  up,  Harry!  See,  we  are  drinking  the  army  of 
Wynendael.    Ramillies  is  nothing  to  it.    Huzzay!  huzzay!' 

At  this  very  time,  and  just  after  our  General  had  made  his 
acknowledgment,  some  one  brought  in  an  English  Gazette — and 
was  passing  it  from  hand  to  hand  down  the  table.  Ofl&cers 
were  eager  enough  to  read  it;  mothers  and  sisters  at  home  must 
have  sickened  over  it.  There  scarce  came  out  a  Gazette  for  six 
years  that  did  not  tell  of  some  heroic  death  or  some  brilliant 
achievement. 

'Here  it  is — action  of  Wynendael — here  you  are.  General,' 
says  Frank,  seizing  hold  of  the  little  dingy  paper  that  soldiers 
love  to  read  so;  and  scrambling  over  from  our  bench,  he  went 
to  where  the  General  sat,  who  knew  him,  and  had  seen  many  a 
time  at  his  table  his  laughing,  handsome  face,  which  everybody 
loved  who  saw.  The  generals  in  their  great  perukes  made  way 
for  him.  He  handed  the  paper  over  General  Dohna's  buff-coat 
to  our  General  on  the  opposite  side. 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY  281 

He  came  hobbling  back,  and  blushing  at  his  feat:  'I  thought 
he'd  like  it,  Harry,'  the  young  fellow  whispered.  'Didn't  I 
like  to  read  my  name  after  Ramillies,  in  the  London  Gazette  ? — 

Viscount   Castlewood  serving  a  volunteer I  say,  what's 

yonder?' 

Mr.  Webb,  reading  the  Gazette,  looked  very  strange — slapped 
it  down  on  the  table — then  sprang  up  in  his  place,  and  began, 
'  Will  your  Highness  please  to ' 

His  Grace  the  Duke  of  Marlborough  here  jumped  up  too — 
'There's  some  mistake,  my  dear  General  Webb.' 

'Your  Grace  had  better  rectify  it,'  says  Mr.  Webb,  holding 
out  the  letter;  but  he  was  five  off  his  Grace  the  Prince  Duke, 
who,  besides,  was  higher  than  the  General  (being  seated  with  the 
Prince  of  Savoy,  the  Electoral  Prince  of  Hanover,  and  the 
envoys  of  Prussia  and  Denmark,  under  a  baldaquin),  and  Webb 
could  not  reach  him,  tall  as  he  was. 

'Stay,'  says  he,  with  a  smile,  as  if  catching  at  some  idea,  and 
then,  with  a  perfect  courtesy,  drawing  his  sword,  he  ran  the 
Gazette  through  with  the  point,  and  said, '  Permit  me  to  hand  it 
to  your  Grace.' 

The  Duke  looked  very  black.  ' Take  it,'  says  he,  to  his  Master 
of  the  Horse,  who  was  waiting  behind  him. 

The  Lieutenant-General  made  la  very  low  bow,  and  retired  and 
finished  his  glass.  The  Gazette  in  which  Mr.  Cardonnel,  the 
Duke's  secretary,  gave  an  account  of  the  victory  of  Wynendael, 
mentioned  Mr.  Webb's  name,  but  gave  the  sole  praise  and  con- 
duct of  the  action  to  the  Duke's  favourite,  Mr.  Cadogan. 

There  was  no  httle  talk  and  excitement  occasioned  by  this 
strange  behaviour  of  General  Webb,  who  had  almost  drawn  a 
sword  upon  the  Commander-in-Chief;  but  the  General,  after  the 
first  outbreak  of  his  anger,  mastered  it  outwardly  altogether; 
and,  by  his  subsequent  behaviour,  had  the  satisfaction  of  even 
more  angering  the  Commander-in-Chief,  than  he  could  have  done 
by  any  public  exhibition  of  resentment. 


282  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

On  returning  to  his  quarters,  and  consulting  with  his  chief 
adviser,  Mr.  Esmond,  who  was  now  entirely  in  the  General's 
confidence,  and  treated  by  him  as  a  friend,  and  almost  a  son, 
Mr.  Webb  writ  a  letter  to  his  Grace  the  Commander-in-Chief, 
in  which  he  said: — 

Your  Grace  must  be  aware  that  the  sudden  perusal  of  the  London 
Gazette,  in  which  your  Grace's  secretary,  Mr.  Cardonnel,  hath  men- 
tioned Major-General  Cadogan's  name  as  the  ofiicer  commanding  in 
the  late  action  of  W3aiendael,  must  have  caused  a  feeling  of  anything 
but  pleasure  to  the  General  who  fought  that  action. 

Your  Grace  must  be  aware  that  Mr.  Cadogan  was  not  even  present 
at  the  battle,  though  he  arrived  with  squadrons  of  horse  at  its  close, 
and  put  himself  under  the  command  of  his  superior  officer.  And  as 
the  result  of  the  battle  of  Wynendael,  in  which  Lieu  tenant-General 
Webb  had  the  good  fortune  to  command,  was  the  capture  of  Lille, 
the  relief  of  Brussels,  then  invested  by  the  enemy  under  the  Elector 
of  Bavaria,  the  restoration  of  the  great  cities  of  Ghent  and  Bruges,  of 
which  the  enemy  (by  treason  within  the  walls)  had  got  possession  in  the 
previous  year,  Mr.  Webb  cannot  consent  to  forego  the  honours  of  such  a 
success  and  service,  for  the  benefit  of  Mr.  Cadogan,  or  any  other  person. 

As  soon  as  the  military  operations  of  the  year  are  over,  Lieutenant- 
General  Webb  will  request  permission  to  leave  the  army,  and  return 
to  his  place  in  Parliament,  where  he  gives  notice  to  his  Grace  the 
Commander-in-Chief,  that  he  shall  lay  his  case  before  the  House  of 
Commons,  the  country,  and  Her  Majesty  the  Queen. 

By  his  eagerness  to  rectify  that  false  statement  of  the  Gazette, 
which  had  been  written  by  his  Grace's  secretary,  Mr.  Cardonnel, 
Mr.  Webb,  not  being  able  to  reach  his  Grace  the  Commander-in- 
Chief  on  account  of  the  gentlemen  seated  between  them,  placed  the 
paper  containing  the  false  statement  on  his  sword,  so  that  it  might 
more  readily  arrive  in  the  hands  of  his  Grace  the  Duke  of  Marlborough 
who  surely  would  wish  to  do  justice  to  every  officer  of  his  army. 

Mr.  Webb  knows  his  duty  too  well  to  think  of  insubordination  to 
his  superior  officer,  or  of  using  his  sword  in  a  campaign  against  any 
but  the  enemies  of  Her  Majesty.  "  He  solicits  permission  to  return 
to  England  immediately  the  military  duties  will  permit,  and  take 
with  him  to  England  Captain  Esmond,  of  his  regiment,  who  acted 
as  his  aide-de-camp,  and  was  present  during  the  entire  action,  and 
noted  by  his  watch  the  time  when  Mr.  Cadogan  arrived  at  its  close. 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY  283 

The  Commander-in-Chief  could  not  but  grant  this  permission, 
nor  could  he  take  notice  of  Webb's  letter,  though  it  was  couched 
in  terms  the  most  insulting.  Half  the  army  believed  that  the 
cities  of  Ghent  and  Bruges  were  given  up  by  a  treason,  which 
some  in  our  army  very  well  understood;  that  the  Commander- 
in-Chief  would  not  have  relieved  Lille,  if  he  could  have  helped 
himself;  that  he  would  not  have  fought  that  year  had  not  the 
Prince  of  Savoy  forced  him.  When  the  battle  once  began,  then, 
for  his  own  renown,  my  Lord  Marlborough  would  fight  as  no 
man  in  the  world  ever  fought  better;  and  no  bribe  on  earth 
could  keep  him  from  beating  the  enemy.  ^ 

But  the  matter  was  taken  up  by  the  subordinates;  and  half 
the  army  might  have  been  by  the  ears,  if  the  quarrel  had  not 
been  stopped.  General  Cadogan  sent  an  intimation  to  General 
Webb  to  say  that  he  was  ready  if  Webb  liked,  and  would  meet 
him.  This  was  a  kind  of  invitation  our  stout  old  General  was 
always  too  ready  to  accept,  and  't  was  with  great  difficulty  we 
got  the  General  to  reply  that  he  had  no  quarrel  with  Mr.  Cado- 
gan, who  had  behaved  with  perfect  gallantry,  but  only  with 
those  at  headquarters,  who  had  beHed  him.  Mr.  Cardonnel 
offered  General  Webb  reparation;  Mr.  Webb  said  he  had  a  cane 
at  the  service  of  Mr.  Cardonnel,  and  the  only  satisfaction  he 

^  Our  grandfather's  hatred  of  the  Duke  of  Marlborough  appears  all  through  his 
account  of  these  campaigns.  He  always  persisted  that  the  Duke  was  the  greatest 
traitor  and  soldier  history  ever  told  of;  and  declared  that  he  took  bribes  on  all  hands 
during  the  war.  My  Lord  Marquis  (for  so  we  may  call  him  here,  though  he  never 
went  by  any  other  name  than  Colonel  Esmond)  was  in  the  habit  of  telUng  many 
stories  which  he  did  not  set  down  in  his  Memoirs,  and  which  he  had  from  his  friend 
the  Jesuit,  who  was  not  always  correctly  informed,  and  who  persisted  that  Marl- 
borough was  looking  for  a  bribe  of  two  millions  of  crowns  before  the  campaign  of 
RamilUes. 

And  our  grandmother  used  to  tell  us  children,  that  on  his  first  presentation  to 
my  Lord  Duke,  the  Duke  turned  his  back  upon  my  grandfather;  and  said  to  the 
Duchess,  who  told  my  Lady  Dowager  at  Chelsey,  who  afterwards  told  Colonel 
Esmond:  'Tom  Esmond's  bastard  has  been  to  my  levee:  he  has  the  hang-dog  look 
of  his  rogue  of  a  father' — an  expression  which  my  grandfather  never  forgave.  He 
was  as  constant  in  his  dislikes  as  in  his  attachments;  and  exceedingly  partial  to 
Webb,  whose  side  he  took  against  the  more  celebrated  general.  We  have  General 
Webb's  portrait  now  at  Castlewood.  Va. 


284  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

wanted  from  him  was  one  he  was  not  likely  to  get,  namely,  the 
truth.  The  officers  in  our  staff  of  Webb's,  and  those  in  the  im- 
mediate suite  of  the  General,  were  ready  to  come  to  blows. 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

i85o-i8g4 

THE  OISE  IN  FLOOD  1 

[From  An  Inland  Voyage,  1878. 

In  the  late  summer  of  1876  Stevenson  and  Sir  Walter  Simpson  made 
a  journey  from  Antwerp  to  Paris  in  two  canoes,  the  Arethusa  and 
the  Cigarette.] 

Before  nine  next  morning  the  two  canoes  were  installed  on  a 
light  country  cart  at  Etreux;  and  we  were  soon  following  them 
along  the  side  of  a  pleasant  valley  full  of  hop  gardens  and  poplars. 
Agreeable  villages  lay  here  and  there  on  the  slope  of  the  hill: 
notably,  Tupigny,  with  the  hop  poles  hanging  their  garlands  in 
the  very  street,  and  the  houses  clustered  with  grapes.  There 
was  a  faint  enthusiasm  on  our  passage;  weavers  put  their  heads 
to  the  windows;  children  cried  out  in  ecstacy  at  sight  of  the  two 
"boaties" — harquettes;  and  bloused  pedestrians,  who  were  ac- 
quainted with  our  charioteer,  jested  with  him  on  the  nature  of 
his  freight. 

We  had  a  shower  or  two,  but  light  and  flying.  The  air  was 
clean  and  sweet  among  all  these  green  fields  and  green  things 
growing.  There  was  not  a  touch  of  autumn  in  the  weather. 
And  when,  at  Vadencourt,  we  launched  from  a  little  lawn  oppo- 
site a  mill,  the  sun  broke  forth  and  set  all  the  leaves  shining  in  the 
valley  of  the  Oise. 

The  river  was  swollen  with  the  long  rains.  From  Vadencourt 
all  the  way  to  Origny  it  ran  with  ever-quickening  speed,  taking 

^  Reprinted  by  kind  permission  of  Messrs.  Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  New  York. 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  285 

fresh  heart  at  each  mile,  and  racing  as  though  it  already  smelled 
the  sea.  The  water  was  yellow  and  turbulent,  swung  with  an 
angry  eddy  among  half-submerged  willows,  and  made  an  angry 
clatter  along  stony  shores.  The  course  kept  turning  and  turn- 
ing in  a  narrow  and  well-timbered  valley.  Now  the  river  would 
approach  the  side,  and  run  ghding  along  the  chalky  base  of  the 
hill,  and  show  us  a  few  open  colza  fields  among  the  trees.  Now 
it  would  skirt  the  garden  walls  of  houses,  where  we  might  catch 
a  glimpse  through  a  doorway,  and  see  a  priest  pacing  in  the 
checkered  sunlight.  Again,  the  foliage  closed  so  thickly  in  front 
that  there  seemed  to  be  no  issue;  only  a  thicket  of  willows  over- 
topped by  elms  and  poplars,  under  which  the  river  ran  flush  and 
fleet,  and  where  a  kingfisher  flew  past  Hke  a  piece  of  the  blue 
sky.  On  these  different  manifestations  the  sun  poured  its  clear 
and  catholic  looks.  The  shadows  lay  as  solid  on  the  swift  sur- 
face of  the  stream  as  on  the  stable  meadows.  The  light  sparkled 
golden  in  the  dancing  poplar  leaves,  and  brought  the  hills  into 
communion  with  our  eyes.  And  all  the  while  the  river  never 
stopped  running  or  took  breath;  and  the  reeds  along  the  whole 
valley  stood  shivering  from  top  to  toe. 

There  should  be  some  myth  (but  if  there  is,  I  know  it  not) 
founded  on  the  shivering  of  the  reeds.  There  are  not  many 
things  in  nature  more  striking  to  man's  eye.  It  is  such  an 
eloquent  pantomime  of  terror;  and  to  see  such  a  number  of 
terrified  creatures  taking  sanctuary  in  every  nook  along  the 
shore  is  enough  to  infect  a  silly  human  with  alarm.  Perhaps 
they  are  only  acold,  and  no  wonder,  standing  waist  deep  in 
the  stream.  Or,  perhaps,  they  have  never  got  accustomed  to 
the  speed  and  fury  of  the  river's  flux,  or  the  miracle  of  its 
continuous  body.  Pan  once  played  upon  their  forefathers;  and 
so,  by  the  hands  of  his  river,  he  still  plays  upon  these  later 
generations  down  all  the  valley  of  the  Oise;  and  plays  the  same 
air,  both  sweet  and  shrill,  to  tell  us  of  the  beauty  and  the 
terror  of  the  world. 


286  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

The  canoe  was  like  a  leaf  in  the  current.  It  took  it  up  and 
shook  it,  and  carried  it  masterfully  away,  like  a  Centaur  carry- 
ing off  a  nymph.  To  keep  some  command  on  our  direction  re- 
quired hard  and  diligent  plying  of  the  paddle.  The  river  was  in 
such  a  hurry  for  the  sea!  Every  drop  of  water  ran  in  a  panic, 
like  so  many  people  in  a  frightened  crowd.  But  what  crowd  was 
ever  so  numerous  or  so  single-minded?  All  the  objects  of  sight 
went  by  at  a  dance  measure;  the  eyesight  raced  with  the  racing 
river;  the  exigencies  of  every  moment  kept  the  pegs  screwed  so 
tight  that  our  being  quivered  like  a  well-tuned  instrument,  and 
the  blood  shook  off  its  lethargy,  and  trotted  through  all  the  high- 
ways and  byways  of  the  veins  and  arteries,  and  in  and  out  of  the 
heart,  as  if  circulation  were  but  a  holiday  journey  and  not  the 
daily  moil  of  threescore  years  and  ten.  The  reeds  might  nod 
their  heads  in  warning,  and  with  tremulous  gestures  tell  how  the 
river  was  as  cruel  as  it  was  strong  and  cold,  and  how  death  lurked 
in  the  eddy  underneath  the  willows.  But  the  reeds  had  to  stand 
where  they  were;  and  those  who  stand  still  are  always  timid 
advisers.  As  for  us,  we  could  have  shouted  aloud.  If  this  lively 
and  beautiful  river  were,  indeed,  a  thing  of  death's  contrivance, 
the  old  ashen  rogue  had  famously  outwitted  himself  with  us. 
I  was  living  three  to  the  minute.  I  was  scoring  points  against 
him  every  stroke  of  my  paddle,  every  turn  of  the  stream. 
I  have  rarely  had  better  profit  of  my  life. 

For  I  think  we  may  look  upon  our  little  private  war  with  death 
somewhat  in  this  light.  If  a  man  knows  he  will  sooner  or  later 
be  robbed  upon  a  journey,  he  will  have  a  bottle  of  the  best  in 
every  inn,  and  look  upon  all  his  extravagances  as  so  much  gained 
upon  the  thieves.  And  above  all,  where,  instead  of  simply  spend- 
ing, he  makes  a  profitable  investment  for  some  of  his  money, 
when  it  will  be  out  of  risk  of  loss.  So  every  bit  of  brisk  Hving, 
and  above  all  when  it  is  healthful,  is  just  so  much  gained  upon 
the  wholesale  filcher,  death.  We  shall  have  the  less  in  our  pockets, 
the  more  in  our  stomachs,  when  he  cries.  Stand  and  deliver  I 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  287 

A  swift  stream  is  a  favorite  artifice  of  his,  and  one  that  brings  him 
in  a  comfortable  thing  per  annum;  but  when  he  and  I  come  to 
settle  our  accounts  I  shall  whistle  in  his  face  for  these  hours  upon 
the  upper  Oise. 

Towards  afternoon  we  got  fairly  drunken  with  the  sunshine 
and  the  exhilaration  of  the  pace.  We  could  no  longer  contai 
ourselves  and  our  content.  The  canoes  were  too  small  for  us 
we  must  be  out  and  stretch  ourselves  on  shore.  And  so  in  a 
green  meadow  we  bestowed  our  limbs  on  the  grass,  and  smoked 
deifying  tobacco,  and  proclaimed  the  world  excellent.  It  was 
the  last  good  hour  of  the  day,  and  I  dwell  upon  it  with  extreme 
complacency. 

On  one  side  of  the  valley,  high  upon  the  chalky  summit  of  the 
hill,  a  plowman  with  his  team  appeared  and  disappeared  at  regu- 
lar intervals.  At  each  revelation  he  stood  still  for  a  few  seconds 
against  the  sky,  for  all  the  world  (as  the  Cigarette  declared)  like 
a  toy  Burns  who  had  just  plowed  up  the  Mountain  Daisy.  He 
was  the  only  Uving  thing  within  view,  unless  we  are  to  count 
the  river. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  valley  a  group  of  red  roofs  and  a 
belfry  showed  among  the  foUage.  Thence  some  inspired  bell 
ringer  made  the  afternoon  musical  on  a  chime  of  bells.  There 
was  something  very  sweet  and  taking  in  the  air  he  played,  and 
we  thought  we  had  never  heard  bells  speak  so  intelligibly  or  sing 
so  melodiously  as  these.  It  must  have  been  to  some  such  meas- 
ure that  the  spinners  and  the  young  maids  sang,  ''Come  away. 
Death,"  in  the  Shakespearean  lUyria.  There  is  so  often  a  threat- 
ening note,  something  blatant  and  metallic,  in  the  voice  of  bells, 
that  I  beUeve  we  have  fully  more  pain  than  pleasure  from  hear- 
ing them;  but  these,  as  they  sounded  abroad,  now  high,  now 
low,  now  with  a  plaintive  cadence  that  caught  the  ear  like  the 
burden  of  a  popular  song,  were  always  moderate  and  tunable, 
and  seemed  to  fall  in  with  the  spirit  of  still,  rustic  places,  like 
the  noise  of  a  waterfall  or  the  babble  of  a  rookery  in.  spring. 


S 


288  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

I  could  have  asked  the  bell  ringer  for  his  blessing,  good,  sedate 
old  man,  who  swung  the  rope  so  gently  to  the  time  of  his  medi- 
tations. I  could  have  blessed  the  priest  or  the  heritors,  or  who- 
ever may  be  concerned  with  such  affairs  in  France,  who  had  left 
these  sweet  old  bells  to  gladden  the  afternoon,  and  not  held 
meetings,  and  made  collections,  and  had  their  names  repeatedly 
printed  in  the  local  paper,  to  rig  up  a  peal  of  brand-new,  brazen, 
Birmingham-hearted  substitutes,  who  should  bombard  their 
sides  to  the  provocation  of  a  brand-new  bell  ringer,  and  fill  the 
echoes  of  the  valley  with  terror  and  riot. 

At  last  the  bells  ceased,  and  with  their  note  the  sun  withdrew. 
The  piece  was  at  an  end;  shadow  and  silence  possessed  the  valley 
of  the  Oise.  We  took  to  the  paddle  with  glad  hearts,  like  people 
who  have  sat  out  a  noble  performance  and  return  to  work. 
The  river  was  more  dangerous  here;  it  ran  swifter,  the  eddies 
were  more  sudden  and  violent.  All  the  way  down  we  had  had 
our  fill  of  difficulties.  Sometimes  it  was  a  weir  which  could  be 
shot,  sometimes  one  so  shallow  and  full  of  stakes  that  we  must 
withdraw  the  boats  from  the  water  and  carry  them  round.  But 
the  chief  sort  of  obstacle  was  a  consequence  of  the  late  high 
winds.  Every  two  or  three  hundred  yards  a  tree  had  fallen 
across  the  river,  and  usually  involved  more  than  another  in  its 
fall.  Often  there  was  free  water  at  the  end,  and  we  could  steer 
round  the  leafy  promontory  and  hear  the  water  sucking  and 
bubbling  among  the  twigs.  Often,  again,  when  the  tree  reached 
from  bank  to  bank,  there  was  room,  by  lying  close,  to  shoot 
through  underneath,  canoe  and  all.  Sometimes  it  was  necessary 
to  get  out  upon  the  trunk  itself  and  pull  the  boats  across;  and 
sometimes,  where  the  stream  was  too  impetuous  for  this,  there 
was  nothing  for  it  but  to  land  and  ''carry  over."  This  made 
a  fine  series  of  accidents  in  the  day's  career,  and  kept  us  aware 
of  ourselves. 

Shortly  after  our  reembarkation,  while  I  was  leading  by  a  long 
way,  and  still  full  of  a  noble,  exulting  spirit  in  honor  of  the  sun, 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  289 

the  swift  pace,  and  the  church  bells,  the  river  made  one  of  its 
leonine  pounces  round  a  corner,  and  I  was  aware  of  another  fallen 
tree  within  a  stonecast.  I  had  my  backboard  down  in  a  trice, 
and  aimed  for  a  place  where  the  trunk  seemed  high  enough 
above  the  water,  and  the  branches  not  too  thick  to  let  me  slip 
below.  When  a  man  has  just  vowed  eternal  brotherhood  with 
the  universe  he  is  not  in  a  temper  to  take  great  determinations 
coolly,  and  this,  which  might  have  been  a  very  important  deter- 
mination for  me,  had  not  been  taken  under  a  happy  star.  The 
tree  caught  me  about  the  chest,  and  while  I  was  yet  struggling 
to  make  less  of  myself  and  get  through,  the  river  took  the  matter 
out  of  my  hands  and  bereaved  me  of  my  boat.  The  Arethusa 
swung  round  broadside  on,  leaned  over,  ejected  so  much  of  me 
as  still  remained  on  board,  and,  thus  disencumbered,  whipped 
under  the  tree,  righted,  and  went  merrily  away  downstream. 

I  do  not  know  how  long  it  was  before  I  scrambled  on  to  the 
tree  to  which  I  was  left  cHnging,  but  it  was  longer  than  I  cared 
about.  My  thoughts  were  of  a  grave  and  almost  somber  char- 
acter, but  I  still  clung  to  my  paddle.  The  stream  ran  away  with 
my  heels  as  fast  as  I  could  pull  up  my  shoulders,  and  I  seemed, 
by  the  weight,  to  have  all  the  water  of  the  Oise  in  my  trousers' 
pockets.  You  can  never  know,  till  you  try  it,  what  a  dead  pull 
a  river  makes  against  a  man.  Death  himself  had  me  by  the 
heels,  for  this  was  his  last  ambuscade,  and  he  must  now  join  per- 
sonally in  the  fray.  And  still  I  held  to  my  paddle.  At  last  I 
dragged  myself  on  to  my  stomach  on  the  trunk,  and  lay  there  a 
breathless  sop,  with  a  mingled  sense  of  humor  and  injustice. 
A  poor  figure  I  must  have  presented  to  Burns  upon  the  hilltop 
with  his  team.  But  there  was  the  paddle  in  my  hand.  On  my 
tomb,  if  ever  I  have  one,  I  mean  to  get  these  words  inscribed: 
''He  clung  to  his  paddle." 

The  Cigarette  had  gone  past  awhile  before;  for,  as  I  might 
have  observed,  if  I  had  been  a  little  less  pleased  with  the  universe 
at  the  moment,  there  was  a  clear  way  round  the  tree  top  at  the 
19 


290  PROSE  NARRATIVES 

farther  side.  He  had  offered  his  services  to  haul  me  out,  but,  as 
I  was  then  already  on  my  elbows,  I  had  declined  and  sent  him 
downstream  after  the  truant  Arethusa.  The  stream  was  too 
rapid  for  a  man  to  mount  with  one  canoe,  let  alone  two,  upon  his 
hands,  so  I  crawled  along  the  trunk  to  shore,  and  proceeded  down 
the  meadows  by  the  riverside.  I  was  so  cold  that  my  heart  was 
sore.  I  had  now  an  idea  of  my  own  why  the  reeds  so  bitterly 
shivered.  I  could  have  given  any  of.  them  a  lesson.  The  Cigar- 
ette remarked,  facetiously,  that  he  thought  I  was  "taking  exer- 
cise" as  I  drew  near,  until  he  made  out  for  certain  that  I  was 
only  twittering  with  cold.  I  had  a  rubdown  with  a  towel,  and 
donned  a  dry  suit  from  the  india-rubber  bag.  But  I  was  not  my 
own  man  again  for  the  rest  of  the  voyage.  I  had  a  queasy  sense 
that  I  wore  my  last  dry  clothes  upon  my  body.  The  struggle 
had  tired  me;  and,  perhaps,  whether  I  knew  it  or  not,  I  was 
a  little  dashed  in  spirit.  The  devouring  element  in  the  universe 
had  leaped  out  against  me,  in  this  green  valley  quickened  by  a 
running  stream.  The  bells  were  all  very  pretty  in  their  way,  but 
I  had  heard  some  of  the  hollow  notes  of  Pan's  music.  Would 
the  wicked  river  drag  me  down  by  the  heels,  indeed?  and  look 
so  beautiful  all  the  time?  Nature's  good  humor  was  only  skin 
deep,  after  all. 

There  was  still  a  long  way  to  go  by  the  winding  course  of  the 
stream,  and  darkness  had  fallen,  and  a  late  bell  was  ringing  in 
Origny  Sainte-Benoite  when  we  arrived. 


APPENDIX  A 


THE  ART   OF   NARRATIVE 


Baldwin,  C.  S, : 


Brewster,  W.  T. : 


Buck  and  Morris 


Hamilton,  Clayton: 


Maxcy,  C.  L. : 


How    to     Write  —  A    Handbook 
Based  on  the  English  Bible 
How  to  tell  a  Story,  Chapter  HI 
The  Macmillan  Company,  New 
York,  1905 

Studies  in  Structure  and  Style 
The  Macmillan  Company,  New 
York,  1899.  (Contains  an  analy- 
sis of  the  narrative  structure  of 
Froude's  Defeat  of  the  Spanish 
Armada) 

A  Course  in  Narrative  Writing 
The  Structure  of  tjie  Story,  Chap- 
ter I 

Henry  Holt  and  Company,  New 
York,  1906 

Materials  and  Methods  of  Fiction 
The  Nature  of  Narrative,  Chap- 
ter HI 

The  Baker  and  Taylor  Company, 
New  York,  1908 

The  Rhetorical  Principles  of  Nar- 
ration 
Analysis  of  the  Narrative  Form, 
Chapter  ♦  H  ;  General  Rhetori- 
cal Characteristics  of  Narrative 
Forms,  Chapter  HI ;  The  Order- 
ing of  the  Action  —  Plot,  Chapter 
VI ;  Forms  of  Narrative  Litera- 
ture, Chapter  VH 
Houghton  Mifflin  Company,  Bos- 
ton, 191 1 


291 


APPENDIX   B 

SUPPLEMENTARY   READING 

The  titles  in  the  following  lists  have  been  placed  in  a  sequence,  to  ac- 
cord with  that  of  the  Table  of  Contents.  In  List  I  (Legendary  His- 
tory) whole  books  have  been  cited  without  specification  of  parts  or 
chapters ;  legend,  to  be  appreciated,  should  be  read  in  considerable 
amount.  But  in  List  II  (History)  and  in  List  III  (Intimate  History) 
separate  chapters,  or  episodes,  have  generally  been  cited  because  whole 
books  of  history  are  too  long  or  too  inclusive  for  the  purpose  in  hand. 
For  these  lists  especially  the  passages  have  been  chosen  primarily  for 
their  value  as  narration,  and  placed  as  supplementary  to  a  given  piece  in 
the  body  of  the  volume,  for  reasons  of  style,  subject,  or  date  as  seemed 
convenient.  Occasionally  works  of  fiction  covering  the  historical  period 
or  supplementary  in  some  other  way  have  been  added. 

The  initial  letters  E,  T,  and  S  stand  for  Everyman's  Library  (35  cents), 
the  Temple  Classics  (35  cents),  and  the  Walter .  Scott  Library  (40  cents) 
—  the  first  two  published  by  Messrs.  J.  M.  Dent  Sons,  Ltd.,  London, 
the  last  by  the  Walter  Scott  Publishing  Company,  Felling-on-Tyne, 
England.  The  initial  letter  W  indicates  that  the  selection  is  to  be 
found  in  Warner's  Library  of  the  World's  Best  Literature.   . 

I.    Legendary  History 
1 

Moulton,  R.  G.  (editor) :       The  Modern  Reader's  Bible 

The  same  in  separate  volumes : 
The  Judges;  The  Kings  j  Bibli- 
cal Idylls  (including  Ruth  and 
Esther),  Da?tiel,  and  the  Minor 
'Prophets 

Nettleton,  G.  H.  (editor):    Old  Testament  Narratives 

In  Henry  Holt  and  Company's 
English  Readings 
292 


APPENDIX 


293 


3 


Cunningham,  Allan : 
Curtin,  Jeremiah : 
Gregory,  Lady  Augusta 
Gregory,  Lady  Augusta : 
Joyce,  P.  W.  : 
Larminie,  William : 

MacManus,  Seumas : 
Rolleston,  T.  W. : 

Thomas,  C.  E. : 
Yeats,  W.  B. : 


Armour,  Margaret: 
Dasent,  G.  W. : 
Magnusson  and  Morris : 
Press,  M.  A.  C. : 
Thomas,  Edward: 
Fiction  Morris,  William : 


Morris,  William 


Morris,  William : 
Morris,  William : 


Traditional  Tales 

Hero  Tales  of  Ireland 

Gods  and  Fighting  Men 

Poets  and  Dreamers 

Old  Celtic  Romances 

West  Irish  Folk-Tales  and  Ro- 
mances 

Donnegal  Fairy  Stories. 

Myths  and  Legends  of  the  Celtic 
Race 

Celtic  Stories 

Irish  Fairy-  and  Folk-Tales —  S 

The  Fall  of  the  Nibelungs  —  E 
The  Story  of  Burnt  Njal  —  E 
The  Story  of  the  Volsu?igs  —  S 
The  Laxdaela  Saga  —  T 
Norse  Tales 
Sigurd  the  Volsung 

Verse  tale  founded  on  the  story 
of  the  Volsungs 
The  Lovers  of  Gudru7i 

Verse  tale  founded  on  the  Lax- 
daela Saga 
The  House  of  the  Wol/i?igs 
The  Roots  of  the  Mountains 


Lanier,  Sidney  (editor) ; 
Williams,  R.  (editor) : 


The  Boy'^s  Mabinogion 
The  Mabinogion  —  E 


Evans,  Sebastian: 

Lang,  Andrew: 
Lanier,  Sidney: 

Malory,  Sir  T. : 


The   High   History  of  the  Holy 

Grail  —  E 
Aucassin  et  Nicolette 
The  Boy^s  King  Arthur 
(Adapted  from  Malory) 
Morte  D' Arthur—  E,  T,  S 


294 


PROSE  NARRATIVES 


Mason,  Eugene: 


Aucassin  et  Nicolette  and  Fifteen 
Other  Romances  and  Legends 


\ 


Mason,  Eugene : 
Morris,  William : 
Syrett,  Netta: 
Weston,  Jessie  L. 
Weston,  Jessie  L. 
Weston,  Jessie  L. 
Weston,  Jessie  L. 


Wragg,  H.: 
Fiction  Church,  A.  J. : 

Morris,  William : 


French  Medieval  Roinances  —  E 

Old  French  Romances 

Stories  fro7n  Medieval  Romance 

Romafice^  Vision^  Satire 

Sir  Gawain  and  the  Lady  of  Lys 

Sir  Gawain  at  the  Grail  Castle 

Gottfried  vo?t  Strassburg 

(The    Story    of    Tristram    and 

Iseult) 
Selections  frojn  Malory 
Stories  of  Charlemagne 
Early  Romances  —  E 


II.    History 


Herodotus : 


Livy: 


Plutarch : 


The  History  —  E 
-K  The  Story  of  Cyrus,  Book  I 
(Clio),  Chapters  95-130;  The 
Rule  of  the  Magi,  Book  HI 
(Thalia),  Chapters  61-88;  The 
Expedition  against  the  Scythians, 
Book  IV  (Melpomene),  Chapters 
85-148;  The  Battle  of  Mara- 
thon, Book  VI  (Erato),  Chapters 
94-117;  The  Battle  of  Salamis, 
Book  VIII  (Urania),  Chapters 
51-96 

History  of  Ro7ne 

Horatius,    Book    II ;    Battle    of 
Lake  Trasimene,  Book  XXII 

Life  of  Tifnoleon  —  E 
Dryden's  translation 


APPENDIX 


295 


Thucydides 


History  of  the  Pelopo?inesian  War 
The  Sicilian  Expedition,  Books 
VI  and  VII 


Dunster,  H.  P.  (editor) 


Edgar,  Madalen  (editor) : 


Lanier,  Sidney  (editor) : 
Marzials,  F.  T.  (editor) : 

Villehardouin  and 
Dejoinville : 

Fiction  Edgar,  J.  G.: 
3 

Boyle,  G.  D.  (editor) : 


MacKenzie,  R.  J.  (editor); 
Gibbon,  Edward: 


Macaulay,  T.  B. 


Froissarfs  Chronicles  of  England^ 
France,  and  Spain  —  E 
(Adapted  in  1853  from  Johnes's 
translation) 

Froissarfs  Chronicles 

(Adapted  from  Berners's  transla- 
tion) 

The  Boy^s  Froissart 

Select  Passages  from  Froissart  —  S 
(Johnes's  translation) 

History  of  the  Crusades  —  E 
Before  Constantinople  ;  The  Bat- 
tle of  Mansoorah 

Cre'cy  and  Poitiers  —  E 

Characters  and  Episodes  of  the 
Great  Rebellion 
Selections  from  Clarendon 
War  Pictures  from  Clarendon 

Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Ro7nan 

Einpire  — E 

Various  episodes  in  the  rise  of  the 

Saracens,  Chapter  LI ;  The  Siege 

of  Damascus;  The  Battle  of  Tours 

History  of  England —  E 

The  Battie  of  the  Boyne,  Chap- 
ter XVI;  The  Battle  of  Kil- 
liekrankie,  Chapter  XIII ;  The 
Massacre  of  Glehcoe,  Chapter 
XVIII;  The  Expedition  to  Da- 
rien.  Chapter  XXIV;  The  Dec- 
laration, Chapter  VIII 


296 


PROSE  NARRATIVES 


Carlyle,  T. : 


CromweWs  Letters  and  Speeches 
—  E 

The  Battle  of  Worcester,  Letters 

CLXXXII,  CLXXXIII 
The  French  Revolution  —  E 

The    Storming  of   the  Bastille; 

Charlotte     Corday  —  W  ;     The 

Execution  of  Louis  XVI — W  ; 

The  Procession  —  W 


Creasy,  Sir  Edward 
Kinglake,  A.  W. : 

Motley,  J.  L. : 


Prescott,  W.  H. : 


Southey,  Robert: 


Fifteen   Decisive   Battles    of  the 

World—  E 
The  Invasion  of  the  Crimea 

The  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade 

—  W 

Rise  of  the  Dutch  Republic — E 
The  Abdication  of  Charles  V 

Life  and  Death  of  fohn  of  Baiyie- 
veld 
The  fate  of  John  of  Barneveld 

—  W 

The  History  of  the  United  Nether- 
lands 

The  Taking  of  Antwerp 
Conquest  of  Mexico  —  E 

The  Melancholy  Night  —  W 
Conquest  of  Peru  —  E 

Capture  of  the  Inca  —  W 
Life  of  Horatio^  Lord  Nelson  —  E 

The  Death  of  Nelson 


Fiske  John : 


The  American  Revolution 

The  Treason  of  Benedict  Arnold ; 
Yorktown 

The  Discovery  of  America 
The  Voyage  of  Magellan 


APPENDIX 


297 


Froude,  J.  A. : 


Hasbrouck,  Louise : 


Parkman,  Francis : 


History  of  England 

The  Defeat  of  the  Armada 

English  Seamen  of  the  Sixteenth 
Century 
The  Sailing  of  the  Armada ;  The 
Defeat  of  the  Armada;  Drake's 
Voyage  around  the  World 

The  Boy''s  Parkman 

Episodes    from    Parkman's    his- 
tories concerning  the  Indians 

The  Cofispiracy  of  Pontiac — E 
Braddock's  Defeat  and  The  Cap- 
ture of  Quebec;  The  Treachery 
of  Pontiac;  The  Death  of  Pon- 
tiac 

Montcalm  and  Wolfe 

Pioneers   of  France  in  the  New 
World 
Dominique  de  Gourgues  —  W 

La  Salle  and  the  Discovery  of  the 
Great  West 
(Several  chapters  included  in  The 
Boy's  Parkman)]  The  fesuits  in 
North  America  in  the  Seven- 
teenth Century ;  Father  Brebeuf 
—  W 


III.    Intimate  History 


Copeland  and  Hersey  (ed.) : 


Representative  Biographies 

Autobiographic  chapters  from 
the  lives  of  Gibbon,  Carlyle, 
Dickens,  Ruskin,  Stevenson 


Plato; 


The  Phcedo 

The  Death  of  Socrates 


298 


PROSE  NARRATIVES 


Pliny  the  Younger 


Fiction  Bulwer-Lytton : 


Letters  —  S 

Description  of  his  Estates,  Book 
II,  Letter  XVII ;  Book  V,  Let- 
ter VI;  Book  IX,  Letters  XXXVI 
and  XL ;  The  Murder  of  Macedo ; 
The  Crimes  of  Publicius  Certus ; 
Two  Ghost  Stories 

Last  Days  of  Pompeii —  E 
The  Amphitheatre  —  W 


Abelard : 


Letters   of   Eloise    and    Abelard 


Froissart,  J. : 


Fictioti     Hewlett,  M. 


Historia  Calamitatum 

Passages  from  Froissart  (Marzials) 
—  S 
(Or  Dunster's  adaptation  —  E) 
Madness  of  the  French  King, 
Charles  VI ;  Froissart  visits  the 
Court  of  Richard  II ;  Sir  Peter 
de  Craon  plots  the  Death  of  Sir 
Oliver  de  Clisson 

New  Canterbury  Tales 

The  Scrivener's  Tale  (founded 
on  Froissart's  account  of  Edward 
the  Third  and  the  Countess  of 
Salisbury) 


Casanova,  J. : 

Cellini,  B. : 

Kropotkin,  P. 
Pellico,  S. : 


Memoirs 

Escape   from  the  Ducal   Palace 

— W 
Memoirs  —  E 

His  Second  Imprisonment;  The 

Casting  of  the  Perseus  —  W 
Memoirs  of  a  Revolutio7iist 

Escape  from  Prison" — W 
Le  Mie  Pfigioni 

Imprisonments  —  W 


APPENDIX 


299 


Fiction  Hugo,  Victor: 


Stevenson,  R.  L. 


Defoe,  D. : 


Evelyn,  John : 

Jessopp,  A.  H. : 
Pepys,  S. : 


Fiction  Ainsworth,  H. : 


Les  Misdrables  —  E 

Jean  Valjean  foils  Javert,  Chap- 
ters CXIX  ff. 

St.  Ives 

The  Escape,  Chapters  VI  ff. 

Memoirs  of  a  Cavalier —  E 
Battles    of    Edgehill,     Marston 
Moor,  Naseby,  etc. 

A  Journal  of  the  Plague  Year  — 
E 
The  Journeymen 

The    Apparition    of    One    Mrs. 
Veal 

Diary  —  E 

The  Great  London  Fire  (entries 
of  Sept.  2d,  3d,  and  4th,  1666) 
—  W 

The    Coming  of  the   Friars   and 
Other  Essays 
■  The  Black  Death  in  East  Anglia 

Diary 

Selections  in  the  Everyman  edi- 
tion of  t\iQ  Journal  of  the  Plague 
Year 

The  Diary 
Extracts  —  W 

Old  St.  Paul's  — ¥. 

Episodes  of  the  Plague  and  the 
Great  Fire 


Cr^vecoeur,  St.  J.  :  Letters  from  an  A7nerican  Farmer 

—  E 

History  of   Andrew  the  Hebri- 

dean 
Fielding,  H. :  Journal  of  a  Voyage  to  Lisbon 

At  Ryde  (entry  of  July  3d) 


300 


PROSE  NARRATIVES 


Franklin,  B.:  Autobiography  —  E 

Journey  to  England ;  Whitefield's 
Preaching ;  General  Braddock ; 
An  Expedition  against  the  In- 
dians 

Woolman,  John  :  Journal —  E 

A  visit  to  Pennsylvania,  Chapter 
VIII 


De  Quincey,  T. : 


Heine,  H. : 


Autobiographic  Sketches 
Suspiria  de  Profundis  —  S 

His  Dead  Sister;  Levana  —  W 
The  English  Mail-Coach 

A  Vision  of  Sudden  Death 
Prose  Writings  of  Heine 

(Translated  by   Havelock  Ellis) 

Boyhood  in  Diisseldorf  —  W 


Borrow,  George: 


Lavengro  —  E 

At  the  Horse  Fair 

The  Bible  in  Spain  —  E 
A  Meeting;  Finisterra 


10 


Hazlitt,  William : 


Lockhart,  J.  G. : 


Macaulay,  T.  B. : 

Stevenson,  R.  L. : 
Thackeray,  W.  M. 


Liber  Amoris 

Me?noirs  of  the  Life  of  Sir  Walter 
Scott  —  E 

The  Death  of  Scott 
Madame  d''Arblay  —  E 

Fanny  Burney  at  Court 
A  Footnote  to  History 
English   Humorists   of  the   i8th 
Century 

Goldsmith 
The  Second  Funeral  of  Napoleon 

On  the  Funeral  Ceremony 


APPENDIX 


301 


The  Four  Georges 
George  the  Third; 
Fourth 


George  the 


11 


Burton,  Sir  Richard 

Dana,  R.  H.,  Jr. : 
King,  Clarence: 

Kinglake,  S. : 
Mark  Twain : 

Muir,  John : 
Parkman,  F. : 
Stanley,  Sir  Henry : 
Stevenson,  R.  L. : 


First  Footsteps  in  East  Africa  —  E 
Pilgrimage  to  El  Medinah 

A  Journey  in  Disguise  —  W  ;  En 

Route  — ^ 
Two  Years  before  the  Mast 

A    Dry    Gale;    Every- Day   Sea 

Life 
Mountaineering  in  the  Sierra  Ne- 
vada 

Ascent  of  Mount  Tyndall,  IV; 

Descent  of  Mount  Tyndall,  V 
Eothen  —  E 

The  Desert  —  W 
Life  on  the  Mississippi 

The  High  River;  The  Lighten- 
ing Pilot  —  W 
The  Mountains  of  California 

A  Near  View  of  the  High  Sierra 
The  Oregon  Trail 

The  Buffalo,  Chapter  VH 
A  uto  biography 

The  Finding  of  Livingston 
The  Amateur  Emigrant 

Early   Impressions ;    The   Stow- 
aways ;  The  Sick  Man 
Across  the  Plains 
Travels  with  a  Donkey  —  E 

A  Camp  in  the  Dark 


ANNOUNCEMENTS 


AN  ADVANCED  ENGLISH 
GRAMMAR 

By  George  Lyman  Kittredge,  Professor  of  English  in  Harvard  University, 
and  Frank  E.  Farley,  Professor  of  English  in  Simmons  College 


l2mo,  cloth,  xviii+333  pages,  80  cents 


A  GRAMMAR  DISTINCTIVELY   FOR  HIGH-SCHOOL  USE 

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what  is  merely  of  interest  to  teachers  and  advanced  students. 

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